Dear Friends: I am going to do that which the dead oft
promised he would do for me. The loved and loving brother,
husband, father, friend, died where manhood's morning almost
touches noon, and while the shadows still were falling
toward the west. He had not passed on life's highway the
stone that marks the highest point; but being weary for a
moment, he lay down by the wayside, and, using his burden
for a pillow, fell into that dreamless sleep that kisses
down his eyelids still. While yet in love with life and
raptured with the world, he passed to silence and pathetic
dust.
Yet, after all, it may be best, just in the happiest,
sunniest hour of all the voyage, while eager winds are
kissing every sail, to dash against the unseen rock, and in
an instant hear the billows roar above a sunken ship. For
whether in mid-sea or 'mong the breakers of the farther
shore, a wreck at last must mark the end of each and all.
And every life, no matter if its every hour is rich with
love and every moment jeweled with a joy, will, at its
close, become a tragedy as sad and deep and dark as can be
woven of the warp and woof of mystery and death. This brave
and tender man in every storm of life was oak and rock; but
in the sunshine he was vine and flower.
He was the friend of heroic souls. He climbed the heights,
and left all superstition far below, while on his forehead
fell the golden dawning of the grander day. He loved the
beautiful, and was with color, form, and music touched to
tears. He sided with the weak and with a willing hand gave
alms. With loyal heart and with the purest hands he
faithfully discharged all public trusts. He was a worshiper
of liberty, a friend of the oppressed. A thousand times I
have heard him quote these words: "For justice, all place a
temple and all season summer."
He believed that happiness was the only good, reason the
only torch, justice the only worship, humanity the only
religion, and love the only priest. He added to the sum of
human joy; and were every one to whom he did a loving
service to bring a blossom to his grave, he would sleep
to-night beneath a wilderness of flowers.
Life is a narrow vale between the cold and barren peaks of
two eternities. We strive in vain to look beyond the
heights. We cry aloud, and the only answer is the echo of
our wailing cry. From the voiceless lips of the unreplying
dead there comes no word; but in the night of death hope
sees a star and listening love can hear the rustle of a
wing. He who sleeps here when dying, mistaking the approach
of death for the return of health, whispered with his latest
breath, "I am better now."
Let us believe, in spite of doubts and dogmas, of fears and
tears, that these dear words are true of all the countless
dead. And now, to you, who have been chosen from among the
many men he loved to do the last sad office for the dead, we
give his sacred dust. Speech cannot contain our love. There
was, there is no gentler, stronger, manlier man.
America's First Great Poem.
In the history of literature there are occasionally noted the names of
some distinguished writers whose best remembered work was accomplished at
the very beginning of their careers. One remarkable illustration is found
in the poem "Thanatopsis," which was composed by William Cullen Bryant
(1794-1878) when he was but seventeen years of age.
His father found the poem in his son's desk, together with the manuscript
of "The Waterfowl," and was so affected by the discovery of verse so
unusual that he hastened to the house of a neighbor, thrust the
manuscripts into his hand, and then burst into tears as he exclaimed:
"Oh, read that. It is Cullen's!"
"Thanatopsis" was taken by Dr. Bryant to the editor of the newly
established _North American Review_; but this gentleman and the friends to
whom he showed it were at first unwilling to believe that an American
could have written so fine a poem. It was, however, published (in 1817);
yet even then, and for a long time after, most persons credited it to Dr.
Bryant rather than to his son.
The importance of "Thanatopsis" is at once literary and historical. It is
in reality the first original note ever sounded in American poetry. Until
that time Americans had merely imitated whatever style of writing happened
to be current in England. Bryant, however, attained spontaneous
self-expression and distinct individuality. He drew a direct inspiration
from Nature itself; and his lines were vivified by the imagination that is
unforced. The publication of "Thanatopsis," therefore, is now held to mark
the date at which the national literature of America begins.