GREETING TO THE DEAD

WHERE the scarlet balm blossoms are nodding and swaying,
Where a cool crystal brooklet is rippling and straying,
A dusky-eyed infant is gleefully playing,
Singing and playing the long summer day.

Where the shade of the maple is waving and flitting,
Wearily sewing, or cutting and fitting,
Over the way, by the window, is sitting
A widow, in weeds of the dreariest gray.

Down where the Father of Waters is flowing,
Where orange trees bloom and the south wind is blowing,
Down where the war-ships are coming and going
To valorous deeds of the loyal and free,

Sleepeth the husband and father. Quiescent
He rests in his grave, where the waves iridescent
Gild steeple and tower in the once haughty Crescent,
That stands where the waters sweep down to the sea.

Soul that no treason nor guile could inveigle,
Dying in patience and pride that was regal,
Firm hand of the fearless, bright eye of the eagle,
A greeting we send to thy grave by the sea.