In War Time

A Memorial


Moses Austin Cartland, a dear friend and relation, who led a faithful life as a teacher and died in the summer of 1863.

John Greenleaf Whittier

O THICKER, deeper, darker growing,
    The solemn vista to the tomb
Must know henceforth another shadow,
    And give another cypress room.

In love surpassing that of brothers,
    We walked, O friend, from childhood’s day;
And, looking back o’er fifty summers,
    Our footprints track a common way.

One in our faith, and one our longing
    To make the world within our reach
Somewhat the better for our living,
    And gladder for our human speech.

Thou heard’st with me the far-off voices,
    The old beguiling song of fame,
But life to thee was warm and present,
    And love was better than a name.

To homely joys and loves and friendships
    Thy genial nature fondly clung;
And so the shadow on the dial
    Ran back and left thee always young.

And who could blame the generous weakness
    Which, only to thyself unjust,
So overprized the worth of others,
    And dwarfed thy own with self-distrust?

All hearts grew warmer in the presence
    Of one who, seeking not his own,
Gave freely for the love of giving,
    Nor reaped for self the harvest sown.

Thy greeting smile was pledge and prelude
    Of generous deeds and kindly words;
In thy large heart were fair guest-chambers,
    Open to sunrise and the birds;

The task was thine to mould and fashion
    Life’s plastic newness into grace
To make the boyish heart heroic,
    And light with thought the maiden’s face.

O’er all the land, in town and prairie,
    With bended heads of mourning, stand
The living forms that owe their beauty
    And fitness to thy shaping hand.

Thy call has come in ripened manhood,
    The noonday calm of heart and mind,
While I, who dreamed of thy remaining
    To mourn me, linger still behind,

Live on, to own, with self-upbraiding,
    A debt of love still due from me,—
The vain remembrance of occasions,
    Forever lost, of serving thee.

It was not mine among thy kindred
    To join the silent funeral prayers,
But all that long sad day of summer
    My tears of mourning dropped with theirs.

All day the sea-waves sobbed with sorrow,
    The birds forgot their merry trills
All day I heard the pines lamenting
    With thine upon thy homestead hills.

Green be those hillside pines forever,
    And green the meadowy lowlands be,
And green the old memorial beeches,
    Name-carven in the woods of Lee.

Still let them greet thy life companions
    Who thither turn their pilgrim feet,
In every mossy line recalling
    A tender memory sadly sweet.

O friend! if thought and sense avail not
    To know thee henceforth as thou art,
That all is well with thee forever
    I trust the instincts of my heart.

Thine be the quiet habitations,
    Thine the green pastures, blossom-sown,
And smiles of saintly recognition,
    As sweet and tender as thy own.

Thou com’st not from the hush and shadow
    To meet us, but to thee we come,
With thee we never can be strangers,
    And where thou art must still be home.

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