For 'tis no despot that's laid low,
But a free nation's chosen chief;
A free man, stricken by a blow
Base, dastardly, past all belief.
And Tyranny exulting hears
The tidings flashed across the sea;
While stern Repression hugs her fears,
And mouths them in a harsh decree.
Meanwhile the cloud, though black as death,
Is lined with hopes, hopes light as life,
And Liberty that, scant of breath,
Had watched the issue of the strife,
Fills the glad air with grateful cries
To find the sun no more obscured,
And with new yearnings in her eyes
Climbs to her watch-tower—reassured.
London Truth.
Surgical aid was at hand. It was found that the bullet had passed through the stomach; both wounds were sewed up, and five days later the President was pronounced out of danger. The next day, he showed signs of a relapse, and sank steadily until death came early on the morning of Saturday, September 14.
FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH
[September 14, 1901]
His work is done, his toil is o'er;
A martyr for our land he fell—
The land he loved, that loved him well;
Honor his name for evermore!
Let all the world its tribute pay,
For glorious shall be his renown;
Though duty's was his only crown,
Yet duty's path is glory's way.
For he was great without pretence;
A man of whom none whispered shame,
A man who knew nor guile nor blame;
Good in his every influence.
On battle-field, in council-hall,
Long years with sterling service rife
He gave us, and at last his life—
Still unafraid at duty's call.