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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=472408" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Edward Everett</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">'OUR FIRST CITIZEN'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">WINTER'S cold drift lies glistening o'er his breast;<br>For him no spring shall bid the leaf unfold<br>What Love could speak, by sudden grief oppressed,<br>What swiftly summoned Memory tell, is told.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Even as the bells, in one consenting chime,<br>Filled with their sweet vibrations all the air,<br>So joined all voices, in that mournful time,<br>His genius, wisdom, virtues, to declare.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What place is left for words of measured praise,<br>Till calm-eyed History, with her iron pen,<br>Grooves in the unchanging rock the final phrase<br>That shapes his image in the souls of men?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet while the echoes still repeat his name,<br>While countless tongues his full-orbed life rehearse,<br>Love, by his beating pulses taught, will claim<br>The breath of song, the tuneful throb of verse,--</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Verse that, in ever-changing ebb and flow,<br>Moves, like the laboring heart, with rush and rest,<br>Or swings in solemn cadence, sad and slow,<br>Like the tired heaving of a grief-worn breast.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">This was a mind so rounded, so complete,<br>No partial gift of Nature in excess,<br>That, like a single stream where many meet,<br>Each separate talent counted something less.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A little hillock, if it lonely stand,<br>Holds o'er the fields an undisputed reign;<br>While the broad summit of the table-land<br>Seems with its belt of clouds a level plain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Servant of all his powers, that faithful slave,<br>Unsleeping Memory, strengthening with his toils,<br>To every ruder task his shoulder gave,<br>And loaded every day with golden spoils.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Order, the law of Heaven, was throned supreme<br>O'er action, instinct, impulse, feeling, thought;<br>True as the dial's shadow to the beam,<br>Each hour was equal to the charge it brought.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Too large his compass for the nicer skill<br>That weighs the world of science grain by grain;<br>All realms of knowledge owned the mastering will<br>That claimed the franchise of its whole domain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Earth, air, sea, sky, the elemental fire,<br>Art, history, song,--what meanings lie in each<br>Found in his cunning hand a stringless lyre,<br>And poured their mingling music through his speech.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thence flowed those anthems of our festal days,<br>Whose ravishing division held apart<br>The lips of listening throngs in sweet amaze,<br>Moved in all breasts the selfsame human heart.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Subdued his accents, as of one who tries<br>To press some care, some haunting sadness down;<br>His smile half shadow; and to stranger eyes<br>The kingly forehead wore an iron crown.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He was not armed to wrestle with the storm,<br>To fight for homely truth with vulgar power;<br>Grace looked from every feature, shaped his form,<br>The rose of Academe,--the perfect flower!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Such was the stately scholar whom we knew<br>In those ill days of soul-enslaving calm,<br>Before the blast of Northern vengeance blew<br>Her snow-wreathed pine against the Southern palm.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah, God forgive us! did we hold too cheap<br>The heart we might have known, but would not see,<br>And look to find the nation's friend asleep<br>Through the dread hour of her Gethsemane?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">That wrong is past; we gave him up to Death<br>With all a hero's honors round his name;<br>As martyrs coin their blood, he coined his breath,<br>And dimmed the scholar's in the patriot's fame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So shall we blazon on the shaft we raise,--<br>Telling our grief, our pride, to unborn years,--<br>'He who had lived the mark of all men's praise<br>Died with the tribute of a Nation's tears.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Oliver+Wendell+Holmes">Oliver Wendell Holmes</a><div class=q>
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WINTER'S cold drift lies glistening o'er his breast;
For him no spring shall bid the leaf unfold
What Love could speak, by sudden grief oppressed,
What swiftly summoned Memory tell, is told.

Even as the bells, in one consenti..."></div>
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