His laurels fresh from song and lay, <br />Romance, art, science, rich in all, <br />And young of heart, how dare we say <br />We keep his seventieth festival? <br /> <br />No sense is here of loss or lack; <br />Before his sweetness and his light <br />The dial holds its shadow back, <br />The charmed hours delay their flight. <br /> <br />His still the keen analysis <br />Of men and moods, electric wit, <br />Free play of mirth, and tenderness <br />To heal the slightest wound from it. <br /> <br />And his the pathos touching all <br />Life's sins and sorrows and regrets, <br />Its hopes and fears, its final call <br />And rest beneath the violets. <br /> <br />His sparkling surface scarce betrays <br />The thoughtful tide beneath it rolled, <br />The wisdom of the latter days, <br />And tender memories of the old. <br /> <br />What shapes and fancies, grave or gay, <br />Before us at his bidding come <br />The Treadmill tramp, the One-Horse Shay, <br />The dumb despair of Elsie's doom! <br /> <br />The tale of Avis and the Maid, <br />The plea for lips that cannot speak, <br />The holy kiss that Iris laid <br />On Little Boston's pallid cheek! <br /> <br />Long may he live to sing for us <br />His sweetest songs at evening time, <br />And, like his Chambered Nautilus, <br />To holier heights of beauty climb, <br /> <br />Though now unnumbered guests surround <br />The table that he rules at will, <br />Its Autocrat, however crowned, <br />Is but our friend and comrade still. <br /> <br />The world may keep his honored name, <br />The wealth of all his varied powers; <br />A stronger claim has love than fame, <br />And he himself is only ours!<br /><br />John Greenleaf Whittier<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/our-autocrat/
