In Memoriam Thackeray

This morn while roving o'er the wonted page
How many an eye arrested on it grew
Terribly fascinate, and breaths were held
A moment for dismay to read the words
Messengers of calamity to all !
How little looked for scaring us there stands
This morning early haunting every hearth
The pale and mournful phantom of thy
Never again the noble rugged head
And silver locks my privilege to see . , .

Great human artist, lover of the true,
Deep skilled to feel the solemn pulse of man
Now beating grandly full, now fluttering faint !
Great satirist who with unquailing front
Dealt stern tremendous blows on laurelled lies
And baseness panoplied in golden mail
Imperial-purpled, swarmed about with slaves!
These named him "cynic " that with ruthless hand
From them, stage-kings who thought to pass for true.
He tore false trapping, stripped each puny thing,
And mocked mere blatant mouthing of a mime !
But manhood brave and kindly and sincere,
And tender womanhood a meek sweet flower,
He drew from 'neath the trampling feet of these,
Proclaiming very ministers of Heaven
In a corrupted world . . . Kind humorist
Opening oft a healthful mellow laugh
Of laughter for the innocent and young !

Now at this time, the wintry Christmas time,
Must he leave void his wonted place with us ?
Weep ! — not unmindful of the birth of Love !

Christmas 1863.