But if one, with merciful eyes,
From the forgiving skies
Looks, 'mid our gloom, to see
Yonder where Murder lies,
Stripped of the woman guise,
And waiting the doom,—'tis he.
Kindly Spirit!—Ah, when did treason
Bid such a generous nature cease,
Mild by temper and strong by reason,
But ever leaning to love and peace?
A head how sober! a heart how spacious!
A manner equal with high or low;
Rough, but gentle; uncouth, but gracious;
And still inclining to lips of woe.
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.)
And if, sometimes, in saddest stress,
That mind, over-meshed by fate,
(Ringed round with treason and hate,
And guiding the State by guess,)
Could doubt and could hesitate,—
Who, alas! had done less
In the world's most deadly strait?
But how true to the Common Cause!
Of his task how unweary!
How hard he worked, how good he was,
How kindly and cheery!
How, while it marked redouble
The howls and hisses and sneers,
That great heart bore our trouble
Through all these terrible years,—
And, cooling passion with state,
And ever counting the cost,
Kept the Twin World-Robbers in wait
Till the time for their clutch was lost!
How much he cared for the State,
How little for praise or pelf!
A man too simply great
To scheme for his proper self.