From the wide miles of autumn corn,
Here to this sun-lit hill,
The wind wails for a hope forlorn,
And the grief of a ruined will.
The soul of a thousand years long dead,
And stark to the mellow day,
Broods, as the clouds drift over-head,
And the rune of a mood has sway.
For here alas! in a waste of weeds,
Fenced from the church-house near,
Lost to a world which no more heeds,
Lies tombed the pioneer.
Who passed when all that he made true,
Blanched for a scarlet stain;
Slain by the soul his father slew
In the strife of Concord plain.
Who lived to hear an empire's horde
Beat hoofs upon his graves.
And saw his country's blinding sword
Flash o'er a land of slaves.
Who saw his son's flesh sown for love,
Crop and be cut in hate.
And lust of princes mould and move
His country's altered fate.
His son! whom Shiloh's field of fire,
Truth brought and final grace,
And rest whose eyes had their desire,
Death rapt on Freedom's face.
Vision it was! Thy secret keep!
Thou followedst the shade,
Till by a chasm sheer and deep,
Thou sawest it disarrayed:
The face thereof unmasked! For lo,
What sawest thou? nay, refrain;
Enough for us Manilla's woe!
Enough the scarlet stain!
Ghosts of the myriads who died,
Shriek not around his head.
His work is done, his fame is tried,
For him the arrow sped.
Look at the smiling fields, survey
These valleys of his quest.
This soul was master of his day;
Take, pioneer, thy rest!
Such rest as not our bloody foes
Shall trouble, cowards we,
To shirk the task the Fates impose,
We must be true like thee.
Thou pioneer through whose gnarled hand
We touched the sage's cloak,
Whose spirit waved the magic wand,
That loosed the tyrant's yoke;
Who passed to thee the spark whose light
May flame to heaven again;
And turn the deepest pall of night,
To morning for all men.
From the wide miles of autumn corn,
Here to this sun-lit hill,
The wind sings for a hope new born,
And the vow of a chainless will.
For we, thy children, will not fail
When we remember thee.
Thou pioneer, whose trials avail
To bring us victory!
