“A Funeral Hymn for Ogden Hoffman” by William Ross Wallace

by theliterarymaiden

I found this while scouring the newspapers the other day. Of course, with Ogden being Charles F. Hoffman’s half-brother, I have to post it. I have dreams about all of the wonderful things I want to write about on this blog, but I never find the time or energy to do it. But maybe someday I will, and I’ll write about Ogden’s impressive life, including his naval career during the War of 1812, his notability as a lawyer, and the time when he stirred up the political world due to switching parties (trust me, it was big, and the newspapers were relentless). The first two points are alluded to in this poem and hopefully provide a little context about the life and career that Wallace is paying tribute to. All of that said, here is a poem that was written in honor of Hoffman and first published in the May 11, 1856 issue of the New York Herald, eleven days after his death.

Note: I removed a word from stanza III due to its offensive nature.

A Funeral Hymn for Ogden Hoffman
William Ross Wallace
From The Loved and the Lost, pp. 126-128

I.
Let him who, in some gloomy hour,
May hold the human heart
But a mere wreck of Eden where
Love’s blossoms feebly start;
Who cannot see within its maze
The frequent gleam of glory’s rays,
Or hear beneath its troubled zone,
Affection’s sweet, soft undertone—
Let him but mark the tears, the sighs,
Whenever something noble dies.

II.
Thine, Hoffman! thine the glorious lot,
When waking such a wo,
To prove how false the creed that veils
From us the starry glow:
Each tear has shown how brightly still
In man, despite all cloudy Ill,
An angel yearning ever mounts
To drink at Glory’s shining founts,
As the struck eagle from the plain,
Will sunward turn his eyes again.

III.
The gray-haired hero stood beside
The coffin wet with tears,
And to the younger soldier told
Thy valiant early years,
When battling with the foe,
Thou grav’st for us the deadly blow,
Or when thy falchion from the wall
Leaped to a threatened country’s call:—
How thrilled the listening soldier there,
Even in Death’s sepulchral air!

IV.
The patriot leaning by the hearse,
Mused proudly on the time
Thy voice a noble music gave
To rouse or calm his clime—
Now thunderous as the harp whose strings
Seem sounding to a storm-god’s wings;
Now soft as magic flutes that breathe
Where myrtles in the moonlight wreathe:—
How will that patriot gather power
From honored pall and burial hour!

V.
But Death our grandest state revealed,
When, robed in funeral gloom,
A thousand weeping mourners stood
Beside thy trophied tomb,
And whispered to themselves how oft
Thy voice fell tearfully and soft
On pale Misfortune’s haggard cheek,
Herself too sad or proud to speak—
For Pathos from his gentle throne
Had fondly called thee for his own.

VI.
Then raise to Death a joyous hymn,
And o’er the hallowed grave
Let Spring, no longer awed by grief,
Her emerald banner wave,
While thus amid the fragrant bloom
She tenderly sheds on the tomb—
As if ’twas also hers to know
How dear to us the dust below—
Exulting we can stand and see
Crowns yet on our Humanity!