The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1886-12-22
Locksley Han. sixty Years After,

Watched again the hollow ridges roaring into
cataracts;
Wandered back to living boyhood while heard
the curlews CALL
T. myself so close on death, and death itself in
Locksley Hall.
So your happy suit was blasted-she, the fault
less. the divine
And you liKen-boyish babble-this boy-l OF
yours with mine.
I, myself. have often babbled, doubtless, of
foolish past.
Batble babble, our old England may 60 down
in babble at last
Curse him; curse your fellow victim, call him
dotard, in your rage;
Eyes that lured a dotng boyhood, well might
fool a dotards age.
Tilted for weather. wealthier yet, perhaps,
she was not wise.
/ remember how you kissed the miniature with
those sweet eyes.
In the hall there hangs a painting Amys arms
about my neck;
Happy children in sunbeam sitting on the ribs
of wreck.
In my life there was pcture-she that clasped
my neck had flown:
l was left within the shadow, sitting on the
wreck alone
Yours has been a slighter ailment; will you sick
en- for her sakel
You2 Not you! Your modern amourist is of
easier, earthlier make.
Amy loved me, Amy failed me; Amy was tim
i'd child;
But your Judith, but your wording, she had
never driven me wild.
She that holds the diamond necklace dearer than
the golden ring,
She that finds winter sunset fairer than
morn of spring;
She that in her heart is broodng on his briefer
lease of life,
the would-be widow wife;
She, the wording born Of worldlings-father,
mother, be content;
Fen the homely farm can teach US there is
something in descent.
Yonder in that chapel slowly sinking now into
the ground,
Lies the warrior, my forefather, with his feet
upon the hound.
Crossed for once, he sailed the sea, to crush the
Mosem in his pride
Dead the warrior, dead his glory, dead the cause
In which he died.
Yet how often and Amy in the moldering
aisle have Stood
Gazing for one pensive moment on that founder
of our blood.
There again stood to-day, and where of old we
knelt in prayer;
Close beneath the easement crimson, with the
shield OF Locksley there.
All in white Italian marble, looking still as if
she smiled
Lies my Amy, dead in childbirth; dead the
mother, dead the child.
Dead, and sixty years ago; and dead her aged
husband now
/, this old white-headed dreamer, stopped and
kissed her marble brow.
Gone the fires of youth, the follies furies,
curses. passionate tears;
Gone like fires, and floods, and earthquakes Of
the planets flowing years;
Fires that shook me once, but now to silent ashes
fallen away;
Cold upon the dead volcano sleeps the CLEAN of
dying day.
Gone the tyrant of my youth and mute below
the chancel stones
,Al his virtues" forgive them black in white,
above his bones
Gone, the comrades of my bivouac some In fight
against the foe,
Some through age and slow diseases gone as all
on earth will go.
Gone, with whom for forty years my life in
golden sequence ran,
She, with all the charm of woman, she with all
the breadth of man;
Strong in will and rich in wisdom-Edith, loyal,
lowy sweet,
Feminine to her Utmost heart, and feminine to
her tender feet;
Very woman of very woman, nurse of ailing
body and mind,
She that linked again the broken chain that
bound me to my kind.
Here, to-day, was Amy with me, while wan
dered down the coast.
Near US Edth's holy shadow, smiling at the
slighter ghost.
Gone our sailor son, thy father Leonard, early
lost at sea;
Thou alone. my boy, of Amy's kin and mine art
Gone, thy tender-natured mother, wearying to
Pinine for the stronger heart that once had beat
beside her own.
Truth-for truth is truth-he worshpt, being
true as he was brave;
Good-for good is good-he followed, yet he
looked beyond the grave.
Wiser there than you, that, browning barren
death as lord of all,
Deem this over tragic dramas closing curtain is
the pail.
Beautiful WAS death in him who saw tie death
but kept the deck,
Saving and their babes, and sinking
with the sinking wreck
Gone forever-ever! No! For since our dying
race began,
Ever, ever and forever was the leading light of
man.
Those that in barbarian burials killed the slave
and slew the wife,
Felt within themselves the sacred passion OF
the second life.
Indian warriors dream of ampler hunting
grounds beyond the night.
Zen the black Australian, dying, hopes he shall
return white.
Truth for truth and good for good Be good!
The true. the pure, the just
Take the charm forever from them. and they
crumble into dust;
Gone the cry of Forward! Forward! Lost
within growing gloom.
Lost, or only heard in silence, from the silence
of o tomb.
Half the marvels of my morning triumphs over
time and space.