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CRAVEN LANGSTROTH BETTS

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IN MEMORIAM

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WHOM would ye choose? for, lo, the chief is dead,

Who latest swayed the realm of English hearts;

He whose revered and silver-crownëd head

Lies peaceful midst the thunder of your marts;

Your Alfred of the calm and lofty mien,

His fingers clasping Shakespere's Cymbeline.

Buried in the bowels of that ancient crypt,

Amidst the dust of your illustrious great,

He rests, the gracious-hearted, honey-lipped,

Peer of the grandest of your race and state;

Yea, prince of more than kingdoms, age or clime—

A monarch whose dead sceptre conquers time!

For, even while the trembling hand of age

Dwelt on the strings, no harsh, uncertain sound

Smote false your hearts; the venerable Mage,

The Master-minstrel all your being found;

Revived your souls to the rich bloom of youth,

And charmed with music the high paths to truth.

Ah, ye may dew with tears the burial-stone,

And strew your tributes o'er his stainless hearse;

Voice the far echo of his Godlike tone;

Embalm his memory in your fragrant verse;

All, all in vain—no Star of Song doth rise

Above the grave where your great Laureate lies.

The laurel wreath of Spencer should not grace

A front less high than this majestic brow,

The stamp imperial graved upon the face,

Fervently lighted with the poet's vow;

And with the outgrowth of a fertile heart

Blooming and fruiting in the close of art.

That hand which might have grasped yon silent lyre,

And struck its fateful strings with strenuous might,

Joined yester-year the pure-toned English choir,

Who wear their amaranths in the halls of light;

Ruder the touch, yet from those fingers ran

Strains that could rouse or sink the heart of man.

But now, the Arthur of your poet realm,

Both Lancelot and Galahad of rhyme,

Whom will ye find to wear his wingëd helm

Or ride his charger down the lists of time?

The new Pendragon—where can such be found?

Alas, not one of all your Table Round!

Let none the storied chords of that clear harp

Restrike in service dissonant and vain;

Ye will but cause the world to mock and carp;

Ye will but sound a void of grief and pain;

Hang up the shining wires above his head

And leave your laureate's wreath upon the dead.