At Marshfield
By William Cleaver Wilkinson (1833-1920) |
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HIS way in farming all men knew;
Way
wide, forecasting, free,
A liberal tilth that made the
tiller poor.
That huge Websterian plough what furrows
drew
Through fallows fattened from the barren sea!
Yoked to that plough and matched for mighty size,
What
oxen moved!�in progress equal, sure,
Unconscious of
resistance, as of force
Not finite, elemental, like his
own,
Taking its way with unimpeded course.
He loved to
look into their meek brown eyes,
That with a light of
love half human shone
Calmly on him from out the ample
front,
While, with a kind of mutual, wise,
Mute
recognition of some kin,
Superior to surprise,
And
schooled by immemorial wont,
They seemed to say, We let
him in,
He is of us, he is, by natural dower,
One in
our brotherhood of great and peaceful power.
So, when
he came to die
At Marshfield by the sea,
And now the
end is nigh,
Up from the pleasant lea
Move his dumb
friends in solemn, slow,
Funereal procession, and before
Their master's door
In melancholy file compassionately
go;
He will be glad to see his trusty friends once more.
Now let him look a look that shall suffice,
Lo, let the
dying man
Take all the peace he can
From those large
tranquil brows and deep soft eyes.
Rest it will be to
him,
Before his eyes grow dim,
To bathe his aged eyes
in one deep gaze
Commingled with old days,
On faces of
such friends sincere,
With fondness brought from boyhood,
dear.
Farewell, a long look and the last,
And
these have turned and passed.
Henceforth he will no more,
As was his wont before,
Step forth from yonder door
To
taste the freshness of the early dawn,
The whiteness of
the sky,
The whitening stars on high,
The dews yet
white that lie
Far spread in pearl upon the glimmering
lawn;
Never at evening go,
Sole pacing to and fro,
With musing step and slow,
Beneath the cope of heaven set
thick with stars,
Considering by whose hand
Those
works, in wisdom planned,
Were fashioned, and still stand
Serenely fast and fair above these earthly jars.
Never
again. Forth he will soon be brought
By neighbors that
have loved him, having known,
Plain farmers, with the
farmer's natural thought
And feeling, sympathetic to his
own.
All in a temperate air, a golden light,
Rich with
October, sad with afternoon,
Fitly let him be laid, with
rustic rite,
To rest amid the ripened harvest boon.
He
loved the ocean's mighty murmur deep,
And this shall lull
him through his dreamless sleep.
But those plain men will
speak above his head,
This is a lonesome world, and
WEBSTER dead! |
By William
Cleaver Wilkinson (1833-1920)
Listed April 25, 2013
This poem honors Daniel Webster
(1782-1852), who was a
leading American statesman and senator from Massachusetts
during the period leading up to the Civil War.
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