Before The Statue Of The Puritan.
(In Merrick Square, Springfield.)
By F. Whitmore.
With sober foot unswerving, lip severe,
And lid that droops to shield the inner sight;
Dark-browed, stern-willed, a shadow in the light
Of alien times, and yet no alien here;
Revered and dreaded, loved, but yet with fear—
He moves, the sombre shade of that old night
Whence grew our morn, the ghost of that grim might
That nursed to strength the nation's youth austere.
Mark the grave thought that lines the hollow cheek,
The hardy hand that guards the sacred book,
The sinewy limb, and what the thin lips speak
Of iron will to mould the era — look
In reverence, and as you mutely scan
The heroic figure, see, rough-limbed, a man.
Originally Published in New England Monthly, 1900.