Henry W. Grady
IF Death had waited till the grateful Land
He championed with his life had bent and crowned,
With a proud, civic garland of command
That knightly brow, with laurels freshly bound!
Yet he cared not for crowds—this wrestler strong;
If down the arena swept some warm, wild breath
Of his People’s praise—this bore his soul along,
This came with sweetness in the midst of death,
For love was more to him than crown or wreath.
Ah! half her Sun is stricken from the South,
Since he is dead—her tropic-hearted one,—
Will the pomegranate flower’s vivid mouth
Open to drink the dews when Frost is done?
Will the gay red-bird flash like winged flame,
The mocking-bird awake its thrilling lyre?
Will Spring and Song—will Love ev’n seem the same,
Now he is gone—the spirit whose light and fire
And pulsing sweetness were like Spring to make,
The gray earth young?—will Light and Love awake,
And he still sleep?—and we weep for his sake!
Mary E. Bryan.