And day by day more holy grew Each spot where he had trod, Till after--poets only knew Their first-born brother as a god. ODE RECITED AT THE HARVARD COMMEMORATION July 21, 1865 (Selection) Weak-Winged is Song, Nor aims at that clear-ethered height Whither the brave deed climbs for light We seem to do them wrong, Bringing our robin's-leaf to deck their hearse Who in warm life-blood wrote their nobler verse. Our trivial song to honor those who come With ears attuned to strenuous trump and drum. And shaped in squadron-strophes their desire Live battle-odes whose lines mere steel and fire: Yet sometimes feathered words are strong, A gracious memory to buoy up and save From Lethe's dreamless ooze, the common grave Of the unventurous throng. Many loved Truth, and lavished Life's best oil Amid the dust of books to find her, Content at last, for guerdon of their toil, With the cast mantle she hath left behind her. Many in sad faith sought for her, Many with crossed hands sighed for her; But these, our brothers, fought for her, At life's dear peril wrought for her, So loved her that they died for her, Tasting the raptured fleetness Of her divine completeness Their higher instinct knew Those love her best who to themselves are true, And what they dare to dream of, dare to do; They followed her and found her Where all may hope to find, Not in the ashes of the burnt-out mind, But beautiful, with danger's sweetness round her. Where faith made whole with deed Breathes its awakening breath Into the lifeless creed, They saw her plumed and mailed, With sweet, stern face unveiled, And all-repaying eyes, look proud on them in death.