EPITAPH
A man not perfect, but of heart
So high, of such heroic rage,
That even his hopes became a part
Of earth's eternal heritage.
Richard Watson Gilder.
The public rage against the assassin knew no bounds. Only by the utmost vigilance was his life saved from the attacks upon it. He was brought to trial and found guilty of murder in January, 1882, and was executed June 30.
ON THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT GARFIELD
I
Fallen with autumn's falling leaf
Ere yet his summer's noon was past,
Our friend, our guide, our trusted chief,—
What words can match a woe so vast!
And whose the chartered claim to speak
The sacred grief where all have part,
Where sorrow saddens every cheek
And broods in every aching heart?
Yet Nature prompts the burning phrase
That thrills the hushed and shrouded hall,
The loud lament, the sorrowing praise,
The silent tear that love lets fall.
In loftiest verse, in lowliest rhyme,
Shall strive unblamed the minstrel choir,—
The singers of the new-born time,
And trembling age with outworn lyre.
No room for pride, no place for blame,—
We fling our blossoms on the grave,
Pale,—scentless,—faded,—all we claim,
This only,—what we had we gave.