Poems (Hoffman)/Posthumous

by Martha Lavinia Hoffman

POSTHUMOUS

We may praise the workmanship of the skillful architect,
When the fabric that he rears
Hath withstood the wear of years,
And the battles of the elements, its symmetry unwrecked;
But when with an interest new from its grandeur we may turn,
Of the magic hand that wrought
From the outlines of a thought,
To completeness so colossal and symmetrical, to learn,
If a record we may find, often 'tis the message solemn
That the mind of sterling worth
Hath been summoned earth to earth,
And the hand is only dust that reared massive aisle and column.

We may laud the sculptor's art gazing on his work immortal,
Where on dome and pedestal
His illustrious statues dwell,
Or in form majestic raised to adorn some marble portal;
From the triumphs of his art, to the artisan we turn,
Of the magic hand that wrought
From the outlines of a thought,
To a symmetry and stateliness so marvelous, to learn,
Oh, how often do we find that for years before our time
That proud chisel gathered rust
And that hand was only dust,
And to ashes burned the ardent flame of genius so sublime!

We may read the author's lore, all our spirits filling
With the grandeur of his theme
And the beauty of his dream,
With a strange unfathomed power all our being thrilling;
Then with reverence enkindled from the printed page we turn,
Of the mind with truth afire,
Of the genius we admire,
From the archives of the ages, with new interest, to learn,
Oh, the answer is the same, ere our generation
That great pen hath gathered rust
And that hand hath turned to dust,
And that mind hath left behind only its creation!

We may prize the thoughts that live on the artist's canvas,
Thoughts that bloom in wintry hours,
Wrought from the enkindled powers
Of a nature and a mind, stamping their own impress;
With a thought of whose they are and from whom they came, we turn,
Of the place of his abode,
Of his life's oft chequered road,
Of his genius and his nature with keen interest, to learn,
Tis the same; the brush that moved o'er the fadeless canvas
Hath been idle many a day,
And the despot of decay
Hath enslaved the mighty brain, leaving but its impress.

We may list to music's power 'till its spell hath bound us,
Weaving all its silken chords,
Linked perchance with golden words,
Like bright fetters of delight clinging gently 'round us;
But when from its sundered shreds with a new desire we turn,
Of the soul that in them lives,
Of the mind that to them gives
All their meaning and their beauty and their mystery, to learn,
Still the records will repeat that the great musician,
Whose notes sway the world at will
Silent now, ah, strangely still,
Hath lived out his brief career and fulfilled his mission.

We may revel in the light of each grand invention,
We may bless the mind that caught
Inspiration from a thought,
To perceive earth's mighty forces move, or hold them in suspension;
But instinctively away from their master-truths we turn,
Of the reason that revolved,
The great problem that it solved,
All too often to the victor's lifelong injury, to learn,
And the records as before tell us that the donor
Of the priceless dower we prize,
'Neath the frozen marble lies,
Undisturbed by calumny, eulogy or honor.

We may read the poet's lay, strong in truth yet tender,
Waking echoes in our hearts
'Till the silent teardrop starts,
With a sympathy responding to its feeling, thought and splendor;
But when from its fountain bright we have quaffed, to quickly turn,
Of the spirit and the mind,
That their image left behind,
Clear reflected in the light of its crystal depths, to learn,
Oft, that same weird taper-light o'er our senses flashes;
Long the pen hath idle lain,
God hath spoken yet again,
Earth to earth and dust to dust, ashes unto ashes.

Poor humanity were they, blossoming and blighting,
Living out their little day,
Clearing barriers from our way,
Kindling beacons that to-day are our century lighting.
Debts of gratitude we owe to each fellow mortal
Who in mind or spirit strong
Struggled through the ranks of wrong,
To unfurl his banner bright o'er the future's portal.

Poor humanity are we in our loftiest stations,
Whether high our lot or low,
'Tis our destiny to go
Sowing golden seeds to bless coming generations.
For a prize that is not ours we are ever striving;
Ours, the sower's tedious round,
Theirs, to reap the fruitful ground,
Happy if they only prove better for our living.

We may do illustrious deeds, we may pen grand pages;
We may sing immortal songs,
We may trample error's wrongs,
Or we may but humbly toil for the coming ages;
They may gather in the sheaves from our toil upspringing,
They may laud us for our skill,
At our golden lore may thrill,
They may bless our noble deeds, they may praise our singing;
But when from our work away, to ourselves at last they turn,
Who we are and whence we came,
Of the history and name
Of the few whose names are blazoned on the scroll of Fame, to learn;
They will find we, too, are dust, who so lately flourished,
Fallen Autumn leaves at last,
Of some glowing Summer past,
Grateful if some violet grow, by our life-leaves nourished.