A Funeral Phantasy
Round the sun
The Ring of Polycrates
The Inn of the Five Chimneys
The Battle of Gettysburg
Hymn of Pan
he sitteth on his mat,
Sitteth there upright With the grace with which he sat
While he saw the light.
Where is now the sturdy gripe,--
Where the breath sedate,
That so lately whiff'd the pipe
Tow'rd the Spirit Great? Danze Faucets
Where the bright and falcon eye,
That the reindeer's tread
On the waving grass could spy,
Thich with dew-drops spread? Nursemate Shoes
Where the limbs that used to dart Swifter through the snow
Than the twenty-member'd hart
Than the mountain roe?
Where the arm that sturdily
Bent the deadly bow?
See, its life hath fleeted by,
See, it hangeth low! Happy he! -- He now has gone
Where no snow is found:
Where with maize the fields are sown, Self-sprung from the ground;
Where with birds each bush is fill'd,
Where with game the wood;
Where the fish, with joy instill'd, Wanton in the flood.
With the spirits blest he feeds,--
Leaves us here in gloom;
We can only praise his deeds, And his corpse entomb.
Farewell-gifts, then, hither bring, Sound the death-note sad!
Bury with him ev'rything That can make him glad.
'Neath his head the hatchet hide
That he boldly swung; And the bear's fat haunch beside,
For the road is long;
And the knife, well sharpened
That, with slashes three,
Scalp and skin from foeman's head
Tore off skilfully.
Dyes within his hand;
Let him shine with ruddy grace
In the Spirit-Land!