HARVEY W. SCOTT
By William P. Perkins
Now rests the hand that held the trenchant pen,
While from the hearts alike of friend and foe
Spring words of tribute—words that fire the soul
With deep determination so to live
As he has lived, to die as he has died,
In all the glory of his master mind,
Effulgent to the end, without regret,
Serene in faith, that in that upper world
What here seem shadows, there will glow with light,
And all life's mysteries will stand revealed.
My brothers, it is good to live—to feel
Within our coursing veins the fire of life—
But, better still, to die, if, when we go,
In farmhouse, miner's hut, and city street,
Men speak our names in praise, because we strove
Not for ourselves, but for our fellow man.
And he who lived, think not of him as gone,
But rather that his spirit lives and moves
Among us yet, still urging us to strive
For high achievement, for the pregnant life
That comes to him who toils. In years to come,
More lasting than the deeply graven stone
Upreared above the portals of the pile
That, rising heavenward, his labor marks,
Will be the influence of his strong life
That strove for right, that yielded not to wrong.
And oft at night, amid the flaring lights
And swiftly-moving presses' mighty roar,
When eager, sweating men shall proudly toil
To give the world his living monument,
All spent with mighty task, someone will say:
"The Master would have had it thus"; and so
Shall labor on in love, with high desire
To render his full mead of tribute sure.
We cannot choose the page; for life's brief span
Marks not the end. The glowing pen may rust
And echo only answer to our call;
But still his soul lives on, and all the good
He did on earth shall multiply for aye.
Step up, bold spirit, you have heard the Voice
That stirred your soul as with a martial strain;
Well done, brave Patriot, rest you here a while.
Salem, Oregon, August 12, 1910.
