  READ at the Celebration of Alice Cary’s birthday, to the children of the Public Schools of Cincinnati, April 26, 1880. A POET born, not made, By Nature taught, she knew, And, knowing, still obeyed The Beautiful, the True. Hers was the seeing eye, The sympathetic heart, The subtle art whereby Lone genius summons art. She caught the primal charm Of every rural scene,— Of river, cottage, farm, Blue sky, and woodland green. Baptized in Sorrow’s stream, She sang, how sweetly well, Of true Love’s tender dream, And Death’s pale asphodel. Her pensive muse has fled From hill and meadow-brook; No more her footsteps tread Thy paths, fair Clovernook. No more may she behold The dew-crowned Summer morn On wings of sunrise gold Fly o’er the bending corn. No more her mournful gaze Shall seek the twilight sky, When parting Autumn days Flush hectic ere they die. Nor note of joyous bird, Nor April’s fragrant breath, Nor tear, nor loving word, May break the spell of Death. Sleep on! and take thy rest, In Greenwood by the sea! Dear Poet of the West, Thy West remembers thee. |
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