The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1884-03-01
John B. Dillon, an Indiana Poet.

Written for the Journal by Louise V. Boyd.
John Brown Dillon, though much neglected,
perhaps almost forgotten, is none the less one of
Indiana's truest poets. For many years my
heart has cherished his Burial of the Beauti-
full, poem that had not merely local celeb
rity but passed into the current literature of our
whole country, being copied and recopied by our
best newspapers for years.
Not only when l wander out amid the spring
time glories of the woods and note the never
numbered flowers far and near while robins,
and bluebirds, and sunshine and breezes mingle
and make a glory in the very air, but when
about my daily household duties, or, when l
wake in the holy hush of midnight from some
dream of the long lost do 1 find myself muir
muring over some of its beautiful lines Think
ing it probable that many of the young PEG lie of
the present may not be familiar with this old
favorite, will give it place here, and dare the
sincere lover of true poetry to forget it;
BURIAL OF THE BEAUTIFUL.
Where shall the dead and the beautiful sleepa
In the vale where the willow and cypress weep
Where the wind of the west breathes its sotest sigh
Where the silvery stream is flowing nigh
And the pure, clear drops of its rising sprays
Where the suns warm smile may never dispel
Nights tears DER the form We love we'll
Where the fairest, earliest violets grow;
Where the sky and the earth are softly fair;
Bury her there-bury her there!
Where shall the dead and the beautiful sleep9
Where wild flowers bloom in the valley deep; Z
Where the robes of the spring time may softly rest
In purity, the sleepers breast:
Where is heard the voice of the siness dove,
Breathing deep notes of undying love;
Where column in the may glow,
To mock the bosom at rest below;
Where pure hearts are sleeping, forever blest;
bona 5ariY,p ppr 1nHro TO aet.
Where the sky and the earth are softly fair,
Bury her there, bury her there
In contrast to this dainty darling, Mr.. Dillon
has given us 1.-THE Funeral of the Year" and it
isn't dirge. The year he sings of is dead, but
the poem is motif is alive and wide awake,
CHEEKY and sprightly, radiant with Hoosier sun
shine, and hopeful for human progress. The
present year is the gate of the good time com
ing" and the poet, like the very genius of our
Christian civilization, will not sing despair and
death when he can sing light and love, but here
are his own ringing rhymes for
THE FUNERAL OF THE YEAR
Come to the funeral of the year!
Not with spirits by sadness
Bring sigh, and shed no tear
Chant the song of joy and gladness.
Let the dead year find the tomb
That many year hath found before it,
Hidden in the past's dark gloom,
And Lethe's waters flowing DER it.
And other years will still press on
Bearing, upon each lovely morrow,
A calmer sky-a clearer sun
And fewer cups of human sorrow
Learning's star shall brightly glow,
AS science hidden truths discoses-
Purer streams of light shall flow
Where superstition reposes.
Still the rosebud will expand
Der the dimpled cheek of beauty,
And the calous "single band
Turn from waywardness to duty
Loves fra chain will firmer bind
Hearts that wear the rosy fetter;
And each coming year will find
Mankind truer, kinder, better.
The demagogue will cease to be.
As he has been, his own extoller;
And freedom land be really free,
With none to the golden COLLAR
And patriots names will not be made
The scott and jest of tavern brawlers,
And statesmens fame will not be weighed
Against the rant of daily scrawlers.
To fa1ne's fair temple have made
In latter days. maddened PUSHES,
And wrote names there DER which, It's said,
The goddess of the temple bushes!
No misunderstanding years will glide
Der all which fame never cherish;
Whatever folly raised in pride,
Like all of folys works, will perish.
1 believe Mr.. Dillon is still living in Indanap-
oils. If so, he must now be beyond his threescore
years and ten. Living or dead let those inter
ested in our State literature still give his name
an honored niche in that temple, overcrowded
now with many names less worthy
DUBLIN, Ind, Feb, 1884