Julia Ward Howe

On Receiving a Volume after the Death of the Author

They bring a volume, precious with thy name
And latest records—all that Love can save,
While the snow falls upon the two-years' grave
Where thy dear ashes careless lie of Fame.

What for thy bitter loss shall make amends
In these sad pages? Wert thou yet on earth
One happy hour should give us thrice their worth,
So far the living word all else transcends.

I did not ask such notings of thy thought;
Holding more dear, with Love's own jealousy,
The vivid doctrine that thou gavedst me,
When flashing look, and fiery gesture taught.

Thus bring they, gathered from Samaria's well,
A droplet that avails no thirst to slake,
Yet men shall deem it blessed, for his sake
Whose shadowed sunlight on the waters fall.

These, thy recorded musings, wake again
The heart's deep longing for a music gone;
Thy vibrant voice, whose clear attempered tone
Was like the martyr's rapture-cry in pain.

Shattered lies now the heav'n-strung instrument—
Sure, Death must grow harmonious on the spot;
While, at the grave that holds, but has thee not,
Sad Echo, waiting, o'er the urn is bent.

To that far shrine, through all the Winter's woe,
With hands enclasped, that strive to lift on high
Affections born and centred humanly,
In solemn, measured cadence would I go;

Making thy grave a station to mine own,
Seeking in depths of prayer some deathless thought,
Some jewel of the soul, divinely wrought,
To hang where purest gems have place alone.

But, held by ties that let me not depart
On Grief's wild sweeping pinions any whither,
I can but send my pilgrim wishes thither,
Folding thy dear, dumb volume to my heart.

Not each for each can live, but each for other,—
Only the dead in God are isolate;
He shall accord me patience for my fate
Whose holy rest doth gather thee, my Brother.