Washington

[From “Under the Elm,” read at Cambridge, July 3, 1875, on the Hundredth Anniversary of Washington’s taking Command of the American Army.] BENEATH our consecrated elm A century ago he stood, Famed vaguely for that old fight in the wood, Which redly foamèd round him but could not overwhelm The life foredoomed to wield our rough-hewn helm. From colleges, where now the gown To arms had yielded, from the town, Our rude self-summoned levies flocked to see The new-come chiefs and wonder which was he. No need to question long; close-lipped and tall, Long trained in murder-brooding forests lone To bridle others’ clamors and his own, Firmly erect, he towered above them all, The incarnate discipline that was to free With iron curb that armed democracy.* * * * * Haughty they said he was, at first, severe, But owned, as all men owned, the steady hand Upon the bridle, patient to command, Prized, as all prize, the justice pure from fear, And learned to honor first, then love him, then revere. Such power there is in clear-eyed self-restraint, And purpose clean as light from every selfish taint. Musing beneath the legendary tree, The years between furl off: I seem to see The sun-flecks, shaken the stirred foliage through, Dapple with gold his sober buff and blue, And weave prophetic aureoles round the head That shines our beacon now, nor darkens with the dead. O man of silent mood, A stranger among strangers then, How art thou since renowned the Great, the Good, Familiar as the day in all the homes of men! The wingèd years, that winnow praise and blame, Blow many names out: they but fan to flame The self-renewing splendors of thy fame.* * * * * O, for a drop of that terse Roman’s ink Who gave Agricola dateless length of days, To celebrate him fitly, neither swerve To phrase unkempt, nor pass discretion’s brink, With him so statuelike in sad reserve, So diffident to claim, so forward to deserve! Nor need I shun due influence of his fame Who, mortal among mortals, seemed as now The equestrian shape with unimpassioned brow, That paces silent on through vistas of acclaim. What figure more immovably august Than that grave strength so patient and so pure, Calm in good fortune, when it wavered, sure, That soul serene, impenetrably just, Modelled on classic lines, so simple they endure? That soul so softly radiant and so white The track it left seems less of fire than light, Cold but to such as love distemperature? And if pure light, as some deem, be the force That drives rejoicing planets on their course, Why for his power benign seek an impurer source? His was the true enthusiasm that burns long, Domestically bright, Fed from itself and shy of human sight, The hidden force that makes a lifetime strong, And not the short-lived fuel of a song. Passionless, say you? What is passion for But to sublime our natures and control, To front heroic toils with late return, Or none, or such as shames the conqueror? That fire was fed with substance of the soul, And not with holiday stubble, that could burn Through seven slow years of unadvancing war, Equal when fields were lost or fields were won, With breath of popular applause or blame, Nor fanned nor damped, unquenchably the same, Too inward to be reached by flaws of idle fame. Soldier and statesman, rarest unison; High-poised example of great duties done Simply as breathing, a world’s honors worn As life’s indifferent gifts to all men born; Dumb for himself, unless it were to God, But for his barefoot soldiers eloquent, Tramping the snow to coral where they trod, Held by his awe in hollow-eyed content; Modest, yet firm as Nature’s self; unblamed Save by the men his nobler temper shamed; Not honored then or now because he wooed The popular voice, but that he still withstood; Broad-minded, higher-souled, there is but one Who was all this, and ours, and all men’s,—Washington. Minds strong by fits, irregularly great, That flash and darken like revolving lights, Catch more the vulgar eye unschooled to wait On the long curve of patient days and nights, Rounding the whole life to the circle fair Of orbed completeness; and this balanced soul, So simple in its grandeur, coldly bare Of draperies theatric, standing there In perfect symmetry of self-control, Seems not so great at first, but greater grows Still as we look, and by experience learn How grand this quiet is, how nobly stern The discipline that wrought through life-long throes This energetic passion of repose. A nature too decorous and severe Too self-respectful in its griefs and joys For ardent girls and boys, Who find no genius in a mind so clear That its grave depths seem obvious and near, Nor a soul great that made so little noise. They feel no force in that calm, cadenced phrase, The habitual full-dress of his well-bred mind, That seems to pace the minuet’s courtly maze And tell of ampler leisures, roomier length of days. His broad-built brain, to self so little kind That no tumultuary blood could blind, Formed to control men, not amaze, Looms not like those that borrow height of haze: It was a world of statelier movement then Than this we fret in, he a denizen Of that ideal Rome that made a man for men.* * * * * Placid completeness, life without a fall From faith or highest aims, truth’s breachless wall, Surely if any fame can bear the touch, His will say “Here!” at the last trumpet’s call, The unexpressive man whose life expressed so much.