Oh, well may Essex sit forlorn <br />Beside her sea-blown shore; <br />Her well beloved, her noblest born, <br />Is hers in life no more! <br /> <br />No lapse of years can render less <br />Her memory's sacred claim; <br />No fountain of forgetfulness <br />Can wet the lips of Fame. <br /> <br />A grief alike to wound and heal, <br />A thought to soothe and pain, <br />The sad, sweet pride that mothers feel <br />To her must still remain. <br /> <br />Good men and true she has not lacked, <br />And brave men yet shall be; <br />The perfect flower, the crowning fact, <br />Of all her years was he! <br /> <br />As Galahad pure, as Merlin sage, <br />What worthier knight was found <br />To grace in Arthur's golden age <br />The fabled Table Round? <br /> <br />A voice, the battle's trumpet-note, <br />To welcome and restore; <br />A hand, that all unwilling smote, <br />To heal and build once more; <br /> <br />A soul of fire, a tender heart <br />Too warm for hate, he knew <br />The generous victor's graceful part <br />To sheathe the sword he drew. <br /> <br />When Earth, as if on evil dreams, <br />Looks back upon her wars, <br />And the white light of Christ outstreams <br />From the red disk of Mars, <br /> <br />His fame who led the stormy van <br />Of battle well may cease, <br />But never that which crowns the man <br />Whose victory was Peace. <br /> <br />Mourn, Essex, on thy sea-blown shore <br />Thy beautiful and brave, <br />Whose failing hand the olive bore, <br />Whose dying lips forgave! <br /> <br />Let age lament the youthful chief, <br />And tender eyes be dim; <br />The tears are more of joy than grief <br />That fall for one like him!<br /><br />John Greenleaf Whittier<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/william-francis-bartlett/
