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5 With sure impulsion to keep honor clear,
When, pointing down, his father whispers," Here,
Io Historic town, thou holdest sacred dust,
Of our swift passage through this scenery Of life and death, more durable than we, 20 What landmark so congenial as a tree Repeating its green legend every spring, And, with a yearly ring,
Recording the fair seasons as they flee,
Type of our brief but still-renewed mortality? 25 We fall as leaves: the immortal trunk remains, Builded with costly juice of hearts and brains Gone to the mould now, whither all that be Vanish returnless, yet are procreant still In human lives to come of good or ill, 3 And feed unseen the roots of Destiny.
12. Memorial Hall, built by the alumni of Harvard, in memory of those who fell in the war for union, a building of more serious thought than any in Cambridge, and among the 'ew in the country built to endure.
Men's monuments, grown old, forget their names
Where shining souls have passed imbibes a grace
35 Leaves in the soil its unextinguished trace, Pungent, pathetic, sad with nobler aims,
That penetrates our lives and heightens them or shames.
This insubstantial world and fleet
Seems solid for a moment when we stand
40 On dust ennobled by heroic feet
Once mighty to sustain a tottering land,
And mighty still such burthen to upbear,
Nor doomed to tread the path of things that merely
Our sense, refined with virtue of the spot, 45 Across the mists of Lethe's sleepy stream Recalls him, the sole chief without a blot, No more a pallid image and a dream,
But as he dwelt with men decorously supreme.
Our grosser minds need this terrestial hint 50 To raise long-buried days from tombs of print: "Here stood he," softly we repeat,
And lo, the statue shrined and still
In that gray minster-front we call the Past,
55 Breathes living air and mocks at Death's deceit. It warms, it stirs, comes down to us at last,