Poetical Tributes.

From: Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli (1874).
Author: R.W. Emerson, W.H. Channing, J.F. Clarke
Published: Roberts Brothers 1874 Boston


  [The following poetical tributes, by Mrs. J. H. Hanaford, to the memory of Margaret, of our mother, and our noble and true—hearted brother Eugene, seem to me deserving of a place in this Appendix. No such tribute of affection and honor can fail to be grateful to those who cherish in holy remembrance the members of my family now so fast gathering on the eternal shores. In the closing part of “At Home and Abroad” I have collected other tributes to my sister, both in prose and verse, which the reader who desires can there find. —ED.]


[Suggested by the recent death of Mrs. Margaret Fuller, the honored mother of the late Margaret, Countess d’ Ossoli.]
                  Brightly the morning of the Sabbath dawned,
                  And swiftly vanished all the stars of night;
                  Like them to be unseen, but still shine on,
                  A Christian spirit took its upward flight.

                  Her years on earth were many, and those yean
                  All filled with usefulness and holy love;
                  Sorrow had disciplined her soul for heaven,
                  And trials fitted her for rest above.

                  Shall we in sackcloth mourn when such depart
                  Freed spirits, like fair uncaged birds, to soar
                  Far up and on toward wisdom infinite,
                  ‘Mid glories mortal minds may not explore?

                  O, no! we’ll lift on high a triumph song;
                  JUBILATE! all her griefs are o’er.
                  Loved ones are left; but O! she greeteth now
                  The loved and wept for who had gone before.

                  Death hath removed each dark veil from her eye,
                  And radiant spirits walk with her in white;
                  No sea in heaven shrouds their beloved forms,
                  No sorrow there, no weary, gloomy night.

                  Strike, strike your harps! sing loud, ye angel choir,
                  And welcome gladly this companion new,
                  New in the courts of heaven, with youth renewed,
                  But long ago, it may be, known to you.

                  The saint ascending to her own “sweet home “
                  Claims from no sorrowing hearts a tear or sigh;
                  We mourn for those who tread earth’s pathway still,
                  But not for saints triumphant called to die.

                  Peace to the weary dust whose pain is o’er!
                  Joy to the spirit whose long race is run!
                  God comfort those who wait the summons home,
                  Hoping to meet her when their work is done!



[Lines suggested by the recent death by drowning of Eugene Fuller,
Esq., brother of Margaret, Countess d’ Ossoli.]
                  I knew him not; mine eye had never gazed
                  Upon his thoughtful brow:
                  His name, so musical, I scarce had heard
                  To recognize till now.

                  But neither years nor space will now erase
                  From out my heart his name,
                  For with his sister’s it will e’er be linked
                  And share her deathless fame:

                  Since both have found, when homeward tending, red
                  Beneath the foamy wave,
                  Whereon no marble monument may stand
                  To mark their watery grave.

                  O Sea! wert thou not satisfied to take
                  The sister, good and wise,
                  And bear her with her loved ones to their home,
                  Above the starry skies?

                  Why shouldst thou rend again those mourning hearts,
                  O dark and treacherous Sea?
                  Why bid those hearts forevermore be sad,
                  Ocean! at sight of thee?

                  Hush! gentle voices to my soul are calling,
                  And, whispering, they tell—
                  “The Ocean is the Lord’s; it doth His bidding.
                  Repine not; all is well.”

                  Beyond the confines or terrestrial regions
                  There is a better shore;
                  God’s love unfathomed, as the only sea,
                  Flows round it evermore.

                  There parted mends shall meet, and Death’s dark wing —
                  Like sea-birds, screaming shrill—
                  Shall never flap above the drowning forms
                  Of friends beloved still.

                  God speed the dawning or that glorious day,
                  When, sin-freed, we shall be
                  Where tears are wiped from every grief-dimmed eye,
                  And where is no more sea.



                  Friend or humanity! whose warm, true heart
                  Throbbed ever to redeem a fallen race,—
                  Alas I that thou from earthly scenes shouldst part,
                  Ere thou hadst reached in joy thy native place.

                  Thy noble husband, too, whose manly soul
                  Longed for fair Freedom in his native land,
                  Alas! that ocean’s waves o’er him should roll,
                  Ere he could view, in peace, Columbia’s strand.

                  And that sweet “bud of promise,” whose fair bloom,
                  Evoked from out thy paradise of love,
                  Once made so fragrant thine Italian home,
                  He, too, went with thee to the land above.

                  An undivided circle! nevermore
                  Will tears or sad farewell your cheeks bedew;
                  For on that other, that celestial shore,
                  Our God united for aye pure hearts and true.

                  Margaret! thy name hath long been to my soul
                  A talisman of influence pure and strong;
                  Though born a woman, born to have control
                  O’er human hearts for virtue far and long.

                  Thy name shall be remembered when shall die
                  The name of many a warrior of renown,
                  For thon on nobler fields gain’dst victory,
                  And won from history a glorious crown.

                  O for the day when Italy shall know
                  How to be truly free, in virtue strong!—
                  We wonder not that thou didst love her so—
                  Home of the classics, and the land of song!

                  When dawns that day on fair Italia’s shore,
                  Thou shalt be well remembered by the free;
                  America and Europe evermore
                  Shall, as the friend of Freedom, think of thee.

                  And happier thought! where souls, from every chain
                  Made free, forever sing redeeming grace,
                  There shall thy loved ones hear thy voice again,
                  And look with deepest joy upon thy face.

                  They who love man love God; and they who toil
                  To break the chains from men and minds below,
                  Win, through the Lamb, a right to heaven’s soil,
                  Where boundless progress each glad soul may know.

                  God make me worthy, Margaret, to meet thee,
                  And list to thy rich converse on the shore
                  Where holy love from heart to heart flows free,
                  And weary spirits rest forevermore.

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