Strong as a Viking of his own proud North
He trod this deck, two little years ago—
A kinglier man, or one of nobler worth,
Nor his nor any land shall ever know—
So brave, so good, so simple and sincere,
That but to know him was to hold him dear.
The most alive of any man on earth,
His soul on fire with love for all things true,
Anointed music’s high–priest from his birth,
A reed heaven’s voices seemed to whisper through,
Shaken at times by their tumultuous sweetness,
Then hushed with calm of some divine completeness.
To hear his music was to see strange things—
To enter bright far worlds of love and light—
To know how star with star forever sings,
Or weep for deeds that may not be undone
And souls in bondage to some evil fate,
With ungirt loins, and lips that cry, “Too late!”
Thus in his strain the depths of all men’s hearts
He sounded—he whom all men loved—
Then left us, as some gracious guest departs
For whom a higher mansion waits, and proved,
By the great space left vacant, what his worth
To us, who see his face no more on earth.
But yet he is not dead. To–night I hear
The old strain steal across the April sea;
Almost I fancy ’tis himself draws near,
So much the face of life wears memory—
When I recall him in those days gone by,
I know he was too full of life to die.