ON
BURIAL HILL
|
|
WHILE
the slow-filtered sorcery
Of Indian summer lay
Upon the golden-shadowed streets
Of Concord yesterday,
We climbed the rocky path that led
|
5 |
Through
hallowed air all still,
Where Concord men first laid their dead
To rest on Burial Hill.
Her sages and her poets lie
In Sleepy Hollow ground;
|
10 |
But
here, unvisited, apart,
Her good men unrenowned, —
Those vanished folk who greatly did,
Because they greatly planned.
Here in the slanting mellow sun
|
15 |
| Their
sinking headstones stand.
Close to the stone-walled village street
It rises in deep shade, —
This cherished place about whose base
Their first homesteads were made.
|
20 |
Here
the first smoke rose from the hearth
To cheer them, great of soul;
And here for all the world to see
They set their Liberty Pole.
O little, blessed, lonely plot
|
25 |
Of our
ancestral earth,
What dreams are here as we draw near
The dust that gave us birth!
Out of the ancient mighty dark
These Pilgrims not in vain
|
30 |
Proclaimed
the good they saw, then turned
To dust and dreams again.
O never say their dreams are dead,
Since West and South and North
They sent their breed to prove their creed
|
35 |
In verity
and worth.
Across the conquered leagues that lie
Beneath their dauntless will,
From tent and shack the trails run back
To the foot of Burial Hill.
|
40 |
Slowly we mount the wooded crest,
And there in golden gloom
Stands simple, square, and unadorned,
Our grandsire’s altar tomb.
Upon its dark gray slated top
|
45 |
The
long inscription reads,
In stately phrase his townsmen’s praise
Of his deserts and deeds.
Their “pastor of the Church of Christ,”
They wish the world to feel
|
50 |
The
“luster” of his ministry,
His “meekness” and his “zeal.”
I doubt not he deserved it all,
And not a word of ill;
For they were just, these men whose dust
|
55 |
| Lies
here on Burial Hill.
Perhaps we wear the very guise
And features that he wore,
And with the look of his own eyes
Behold his world once more.
|
60 |
Would
that his spirit too might live
While lives his goodly name,
To move among the sons of men,
“A minister of flame.”
So might his magic gift of words,
|
65 |
Not
wholly passed away,
Survive to be a sorcery
In all men’s hearts to-day,
To plead no less for loveliness
Than truth and goodness still.
|
70 |
God
rest you, sir, his minister,
Asleep on Burial Hill!
|
|
|
