Watertown republican. [volume] (Watertown, Wis.) 1860-1906, 1880-02-18

4 Garland for the Grave of William Cuttea
Bryant.
BY E. p. SHELDON.
T1he first part was composed the day after the
poets death, and suggested by the phenomenon
there described
I stood but yesterday upon ledge
Oerlooking the great sea, and there spied,
Far out upon the waters, on the edge
Of the horizon, 'twixt the sky and tide,
A beauteous ship, with all her canvas spread,
Sailing serenely, while the sunlight tipped
Her snowy sails. Like fair bride she sped,
Going to her betrothed with love equipped.
To-day stood upon the self-same place,
And cast my eyes over the boundless tide,
But of that ship there fingered not trace,
And naugLt of that fair glowing bride;
Save that where she her silent course did take,
There shone track, like FURNISHED coat of mail,
Az IL the ship had left this shining wake,
As if the bride had dropped her snowy veil.
But while mutely gazed soon did spy
Dove the horizon white cloud, whose form
Seemed very like a ship up in the sky,
Sailing beyond the reach of wind and storm.
But soon the cloud another shape disclosed,
And like g pillowed couch it seemed to me,
And on it majestic form reposed,
Whose radiant face imaged his purity.
Like mortal deifed he seemed arrayed.
Wreathed with his smiles these fitting words did
play:
IS One in tuaose eyes the smile of Kindness made
It's haunt like JoaCers By sunny brooks an May"
Anon, the cloud lengthening its heecy bars
Like q white quill across the sky did run,
Its graceful form hung pendant from the stars,
Its cleaning point seemed dipping IN the sum-
And this was Natures metaphor complete,
OF that great soul-The Poet-seer subme!
Like great ship, grandly he sailed, and fleet,
Upon the boundaries of the sea of Time.
His silver locks were like the sails bright sheen
His form of matchless grandeur did parta,ze;
But yesterday this regal ship Was seen
To-day only see its shining wake.
1t glstens here upon Times foaning sea-
Like prophet mantle which he left behind;
Twill 1inger long-garland of Poesy-
Which round mother tongue he has entwined,
And now he rides above the storm and wind,
On Fame's immortal couch recines. and seems
.sLike one ,Uho aUraps the dTapery of his couch
About HIM, and lies dolen to pleasant dreGns.'
And that bright quill which 'mong the stars was
And dipped within the sun its glowing point,
Was emblem of his own; His glowing thought
Phoebus, with his own fire did annolnt!
Around his soul there blaZed an aureole bright,
1t cleaned from all his verse in golden bars,
Its warmth was taken from the glad sunlight;
But its diviner essence from the stars.
His eyes cleaned with pure and radiant light,
Around his face there beamed p halo rare,
His heart was all aglow with sweet sunlight
And silvery moonbeams clustered in his hair.
From the eternal fount of purity,
He drew inspiration deep and long;
He thus embalned his name in deathess song
He sought bove all, both in his deeds and lays,
Mankind to purify and elevate;
Preferring acOrthineSS by far to praise,
He deemed it noblcr to be true than great.
Making the cause Of the oppressed his own.
Breaking the chains of ignorance and wrong,
Unwittngly he reared himself throne.
And sits thereon, the regal Bard of Song.
His strains echoed the warbling of the bird,
From babble Of the brook he lured his time.
The sghing of the winds his harp strings stirred.
The whispering leaves, they rustled in his rhyme:
The waves their mur1nur with his lines did fuse,
The pattering rain his melody dip nurse.
The storm-wind rocked the cradle of his muse,
And Natures every voice chimed in his verse.
Softly will mother earth make up his bed,
And sweety welcome home her honored son;
The grass, shield of his fame, above his head,
Will grow stll greener as he SAUNDERS on;
And reaching down its rootets, meath his mound
Will tenderly his sacred dust enfold,
And proudly bear above, with Joy profound,
It's treasure, richer than the rarest gold.
Oh, happy he who to his tomb draws near!
In ages hence on that melcdious day.
Who, breathing such enchanted atmosphere,
VIII quaff the nectar of his melody.
Twill thrill each leaf in grass and blooming bower,
The birds will trenble as they hither throng;
Aud every bud spontaneously will fower
And every voice will burst forth into song.
As this most modest strain in humble heart
Is inspired by his fond memory,
So shall bis slumbering seed one day impart
To nobler soul, sweeter symphony.
Though some great bard sing in StIbLimer tone,
Of him, twill not by greater toce be swayed;
If struck from Tyre grander than his own,
Twill be by Seraph that from Heaven hath strayed.
-CEeUeland Herald.