(John Greenleaf Whittier & Lorne Entress)
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So fallen, so lost, the light withdrawn
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Which once he wore
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The glory from his gray hair gone
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Forevermore
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Revile him not, the Tempter hath
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A snare for all
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And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath
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Befit his fall
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Oh dumb be passion's stormy rage
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When he who might
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Have lighted up and led his age
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Falls back in night
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Scorn, would the angels laugh to mark
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A bright soul driven
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Fiend-goaded down the endless dark
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From hope and heaven
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Let not the land once proud of him
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Insult him now
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Nor brand with deeper shame his dim
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Dishonored brow
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But let its humbled sons instead
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From sea to lake
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A long lament, as for the dead
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In sadness make
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Of all we loved and honored
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Naught save power remains
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A fallen angel's pride of thought
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Still strong in chains
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All else is gone from those great eyes
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The soul has fled
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When faith is lost when honor dies
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The man is dead
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Then pay the reverence of old days
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To his dead fame
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Walk backward with averted gaze
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Ichabod
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| Mark Erelli |
