So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn <br />Which once he wore! <br />The glory from his gray hairs gone <br />Forevermore! <br /> <br />Revile him not, the Tempter hath <br />A snare for all; <br />And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, <br />Befit his fall! <br /> <br />Oh, dumb be passion's stormy rage, <br />When he who might <br />Have lighted up and led his age, <br />Falls back in night. <br /> <br />Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark <br />A bright soul driven, <br />Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, <br />From hope and heaven! <br /> <br />Let not the land once proud of him <br />Insult him now, <br />Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, <br />Dishonored brow. <br /> <br />But let its humbled sons, instead, <br />From sea to lake, <br />A long lament, as for the dead, <br />In sadness make. <br /> <br />Of all we loved and honored, naught <br />Save power remains; <br />A fallen angel's pride of thought, <br />Still strong in chains. <br /> <br />All else is gone; from those great eyes <br />The soul has fled: <br />When faith is lost, when honor dies, <br />The man is dead! <br /> <br />Then, pay the reverence of old days <br />To his dead fame; <br />Walk backward, with averted gaze, <br />And hide the shame!<br /><br />John Greenleaf Whittier<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ichabod/
