IN MEMORIAM Judge Gorham Powers, Died April 15, 1915.

The flowers lie faded on his mound, The rose and lily are decayed; The stam’ring words of praise, we said, Did vanish almost with their sound. The throng that stood around his bier, Is scattered in accustomed ways; And now and then a neighbor says: “This was the saddest of the year.” Alas, if this was all we gave; Then were our eulogies a shame; Unworthy of his noble name, A mockery around his grave.

A month has passed, and April showers Have come and gone upon the scene; The fields are turning deeper green, And leaves are growing into bowers. The butter-cup and violet Appear among old leaves and grass, The Iris stands where runnels pass Into the larger rivulet. The meadow-lark sings in the fields, The thrush chants in the willow-hedge, And mid the marsh and from the sedge The blackbirds merry music peals. Thus spring has conquered winter’s gloom The spring, we hoped would give him strength, Its life increase his journey’s length, Even though a little from the tomb.

But in our heart something begins To stir, and grow, and take a shape, It flings away the dismal crape, And o’er our lamentation wins. It is a flower of rarest hue, Belonging to Eternity,— The blossom of the memory Of what in him was good and true. With this we will his grave adorn, In summer-sun and winter’s frost, Its beauty never shall be lost, But growing brighter with each morn.

’Tis evening, and the clouds hang low, The rain has fall’n the livelong day, But in the west there is a ray, A gentle gleam of evening-glow. Down are the curtains and the shades, Where hearts in silence weep and brood, They nature’s sadness may exclude, But also that one gleam—which fades. I would that she might see it now, That which was once her soul’s delight, That it could meet her tearful sight, From o’er the verdant hillock’s brow. It would, indeed, be rude to say, To those around the cheerless hearth, “Arise, and smile, let grief depart, Forget the clouds which gloomed the day.” For sorrow, like a swollen stream, Must have its course, or break its bounds, And oft its bitterness redounds To joy, of which we did not dream. But that sweet sunset seems to say, “He was a good man, and a just, “You best can honor him by trust “In Him who leads us day by day.”

The maple and the apple-trees, Around his home, are blossoming, There is the hum of insects’ wings, The droning of the honey-bees. This is the season, he loved best,— To labor in his garden-plot, To prune the trees that flourished not,— This was to him a pleasant rest. For he from youth was nature’s child, He loved unfeigned simplicity, He found it in the field and tree, In bird and beast, the tame and wild. He found it in the “common” folk, He loved them, they loved him again, He was the poor and needy’s friend, His feeding tramps became a joke. For it is told, both near and far, How he the tramp led to his board, To all the best it could afford, Then offered him a choice cigar. Forgive a smile amid the tear, The simple hearts will understand, And bless the kind, unstinted hand, Which gave to them new hope and cheer. The apple trees send out their sweet, The purple pomp of maples droop, They stand alone, they stand in group, And wait in vain their lord to greet.

The morning lifts its saffron veil, And smiles with happiness replete, With Sabbath peace it doth us greet, And with the risen Lord’s “All Hail!” It mingles with the mellow sound Of church bells calling man to prayer, It falls upon the altar-stair, Where souls disconsolate are found. No more along the aisles shall move His stately figure, cloth in black, On days when other folk seemed slack In the expression of their love. Not to repeat a senseless creed, Did he the house of God attend, But none like he his ear did lend, To truth of heart and human need. He was a seeker after truth, Pursuing it on flights of thought, His mind to keenness had been wrought By constant study, even from youth. He loved the truth in thought and life, He hated sham and cunning cant, And had a scornful smile for rant, Whose purpose was to gender strife. The Protestant and Catholic He judged alike from human view, Both were his friends, if only true, The false alone a heretic. No honest Faith he e’er did scorn, But saw the human heart in all, The upward reaching of the soul, The waiting for a better morn. Though he with Burns did sometimes laugh While reading “Holy Willie’s Prayer,” Or satires, like the “Holy Fair,” Or “Holy Willie’s Epitaph.” For when we cease to fear and dread The phantoms of a darker age, We read them like a comic page, And smile to think that they are dead. The darkness from man’s faith cast out, And truth and love alone its good, Then he shall know that brotherhood, God’s greatest prophets speak about. Then man the Father’s heart shall know, The “larger Hope” and nobler meed, Then shall his life be one grand creed, The measure of what he doth trow. Was this his faith? He never told, Except in modest daily deeds, He said no prayers, nor counted beads, Yet was he one of God’s true fold.

There moves along the street and lane A motley crowd of old and young; The nation’s anthem has been sung, A homily preached at the fane. It moves along to sound of fife And muffled drum, the step to aid; The flag is to the breezes laid, A flag which bears the marks of strife. These men who carried it on high, Amid the battle’s great array, But feebly follow it to-day To where their fallen comrads lie. “He must increase, but I decrease,” Thus spake the prophet long ago, “Old Glory” has been strengthened so, “The boys in blue” may rest in peace. And one by one is mustered out, From ranks which ever thinner grow, Soon but a remnant we shall know, A remnant in the North and South. So let us plant our flag and flow’r Upon their grave, in Memory,— Of what they were—what we should be, In this the larger, newborn hour. But most of all, let us be kind To these who linger yet a while, Come, walk with them the last long mile, And carry those who fall behind!

He was a member of this post, Lieutenant of artillery, Great Lincoln’s gift for bravery, Of which you never heard him boast. At Cedar Mountain and at Reams, Antietam and the Wilderness, Cold Harbor, with its vain distress, And Petersburg’s dark bloody streams, He knew the brunt of bitter fight, The hardship and the painful wound, He knew the cost of conquered ground, The price of freedom and of right. He knew, indeed, that “war is hell,” And did not proudly speak of it, Although his eyes were strangely lit, When campfire stories he did tell. But peace was regnant in his soul, He dreamed about that distant day, When man shall know the better way, Of peace on earth, good will to all. He read with sorrow of the war, Which Europe’s mighty nations wage, To him it seemed an insane rage, Which e’en a soldier must deplore. It cast a shadow o’er his mind To think that progress is so slow, That highest life is still so low Among the foremost of mankind. His peace increased, as strength declined, The world’s sad plight he keenly felt, And human hope he clearly spelt, In Peace alone, with Truth entwined.

The silver clouds move lazily, Beneath a sky so high and blue, And seem to touch the distant view Of our mid-summer scenery. They are like dreams of other days, Of life that was and is no more, Except upon another shore, Beyond the sun’s prismatic rays. They hang above the peaceful town, They brood above the courthouse tower, Like blessings on the morning hour, And on the judgments there set down. Beneath the lawyer’s able brief, Beneath the arguments set forth, Beneath the rulings of the court, There is a silent, manly grief. The thoughts of him, who for so long Did hold the chair within this hall, Leap from his portrait on the wall, To men whose hearts are true and strong. It seems so strange, he is not there, To guide them with his light of law, Who seldom failed the right to know, Whose judgments were both just and fair. Whose mind cut keenly through the maze Of subtlest labyrinth of guilt, Who undeceived by lawyer’s tilt, Pursued serenely logic’s ways. Was justice clear,—his heart was more, He pitied, where the law was plain, And but for duty, he had fain, Forgiv’n where sorrow did implore.

A year is gone, again the spring Returns in tender verdure clad, The little children’s hearts are glad, And robins in the maple sing. A boy is playing with the rim Of some discarded carriage-wheel, A large and rusty rim of steel, Which on the lawn lends sport to him. To me it speaks of circling years, Of circling Providence and Fate, And the return of this sad date, The day of loss and bitter tears. “Let children play” I heard him say, “The cares of life will come full soon;” The sun is dancing with the moon, At the beginning of the day. I hear a child sing a refrain, A song his mother sings full oft, The laddie’s voice is clear and soft, An anodyne for sorrow’s pain. I see another munching bread, It seems much sweeter in the free, Beneath the budding apple-tree, With soaring April clouds o’er head. Clouds growing denser and more dark; The rain begins to spot the ground, There is a gleam, and then a sound, Which make the children stop and hark. And one is crying out in fear, And all are skurrying for home; O, well for him to whom doth come Its comfort, when the storms appear!

Whose carriage, drawn by sable span, Stops at the long deserted home? It is his dear ones who have come,— The daughters of a noble man;— And she whose life was one with his,— Whose love transcends the bounds of death,— Comes with a rose-boquet’s sweet breath, To greet his mem’ry with a kiss. The heavens weep, and true hearts weep, And in the house is evening-gloom, They stand together in the room, Where he this hour did fall asleep. Then pass into the world again, From sorrow’s holy sacrament;— To one, who lingered near, it lent, Abiding greetings from his friend.

White clover studs the velvet lawn, And fancy forms a monument Of marble-frieze, a tracing blent With emerald and rosy dawn. The carved stone is for the eye Of passers by, who needs be told, In characters and numbers bold, His name; when born; when he did die. To those who love, the strolling breeze Is kindly whispering his name, And who can tell from where it came, Or whither all its music flees? O’er those the flowers cast a spell, The dream of a midsummer night, And with their shapes and hues, delight Bring forth his name in mead and dell. And sprightly, as from Elfin coast, There comes the boy he loved so well, His eyes and locks and forehead tell, He is his grandsire’s child the most. The clover-blossoms, white as snow, Attract his eye, as they do mine, We gather them and lightly twine A garland for his comely brow. Such wreath put round his tresses dark, Gives godlike aspect to the lad; He laughs and runs, his heart is glad, With gladness of a soaring lark. I heard thee say, when life did slope: “Man is immortal in his race;” And now I see thee in this face, So radiant, so full of hope.