To the Memory of Margaret Fuller. by E. Oakes Smith.

We blest thee in thy laurel crown,
And in the myrtle’s sheen,—
Rejoiced thy noble worth to own,
Still joy, our tears between.

We hoped that many a happy year
Would bless thy coming feet;
And thy bright fame grow brighter here,
By Fatherland made sweet.

Gone, gone! with all thy glorious thought,—
Gone with thy waking life,—
With the green chaplet Fame had wrought,—
The joy of Mother, Wife.

Oh! who shall dare thy harp to take,
And pour upon the air
The clear, calm music, that should wake
The heart to love and prayer!

The lip, all eloquent, is stilled
And silent with its trust,—
The heart, with Woman’s greatness filled,
Must crumble to the dust:

But from thy great heart we will take
New courage for the strife;
From petty ills our bondage break,
And labor with new life.

Wake up, in darkness though it be,
To better truth and light;
Patient in toil, as we saw thee,
In searching for the light;

And mindless of the scorn it brings,
For ‘t is in desert land
That angels come with sheltering wings
To lend us by the hand.

Courageous one! thou art not lost,
Though sleeping in the wave;
Upon its chainless billows lost,
For thee is fitting grave.