Patient when saddest, calm when sternest,
Grieved when rigid for justice' sake;
Given to jest, yet ever in earnest
If aught of right or truth were at stake.
Simple of heart, yet shrewd therewith,
Slow to resolve, but firm to hold;
Still with parable and with myth
Seasoning truth, like Them of old;
Aptest humor and quaintest pith!
(Still we smile o'er the tales he told.)
Yet whoso might pierce the guise
Of mirth in the man we mourn,
Would mark, and with grieved surprise,
All the great soul had borne,
In the piteous lines, and the kind, sad eyes
So dreadfully wearied and worn.
And we trusted (the last dread page
Once turned, of our Dooms-day Scroll),
To have seen him, sunny of soul,
In a cheery, grand old age.
But, Father, 'tis well with thee!
And since ever, when God draws nigh,
Some grief for the good must be,
'Twas well, even so to die,—
'Mid the thunder of Treason's fall,
The yielding of haughty town,
The crashing of cruel wall,
The trembling of tyrant crown!
The ringing of hearth and pavement
To the clash of falling chains,—
The centuries of enslavement
Dead, with their blood-bought gains!
And through trouble weary and long,
Well hadst thou seen the way,
Leaving the State so strong
It did not reel for a day.
And even in death couldst give
A token for Freedom's strife—
A proof how republics live,
And not by a single life,
But the Right Divine of man,
And the many, trained to be free,—
And none, since the world began,
Ever was mourned like thee.