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Title: John Clark Ridpath
Author: James Whitcomb Riley [
More Titles by Riley]
To the lorn ones who loved him first and best,
And knew his dear love at its tenderest,
We seem akin--we simplest friends who knew
His fellowship, of heart and spirit too:
We who have known the happy summertide
Of his ingenuous nature, glorified
With the inspiring smile that ever lit
The earnest face and kindly strength of it:
His presence, all-commanding, as his thought
Into unconscious eloquence was wrought,
Until the utterance became a spell
That awed us as a spoken miracle.
Learning, to him, was native--was, in truth,
The earliest playmate of his lisping youth,
Likewise, throughout a life of toil and stress,
It was as laughter, health and happiness:
And so he played with it--joyed at its call--
Ran rioting with it, forgetting all
Delights of childhood, and of age and fame,--
A devotee of learning, still the same!
In fancy, even now we catch the glance
Of the rapt eye and radiant countenance,
As when his discourse, like a woodland stream,
Flowed musically on from theme to theme:
The skies, the stars, the mountains, and the sea,
He worshipped as their high divinity--
Nor did his reverent spirit find one thing
On earth too lowly for his worshipping.
The weed, the rose, the wildwood or the plain,
The teeming harvest, or the blighted grain--
All--all were fashioned beautiful and good,
As the soul saw and senses understood.
Thus broadly based, his spacious faith and love
Enfolded all below as all above--
Nay, ev'n if overmuch he loved mankind,
He gave his love's vast largess as designed.
Therefore, in fondest, faithful service, he
Wrought ever bravely for humanity--
Stood, first of heroes for the Right allied--
Foes, even, grieving, when (for them) he died.
This was the man we loved--are loving yet,
And still shall love while longing eyes are wet
With selfish tears that well were brushed away
Remembering his smile of yesterday.--
For, even as we knew him, smiling still,
Somewhere beyond all earthly ache or ill,
He waits with the old welcome--just as when
We met him smiling, we shall meet again.
[The end]
James Whitcomb Riley's poem: John Clark Ridpath
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