Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew, Between the mourners at his head and feet, Say, scurrile jester, is there room for you? Yes: he had lived to shame me from my sneer, To lame my pencil, and confute my pen; To make me own this hind of princes peer, This rail-splitter a true-born king of men. My shallow judgment I had learned to rue, Noting how to occasion's height he rose; How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true; How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows. How humble, yet how hopeful he could be: How in good fortune and in ill, the same: Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame. He went about his work,- such work as few Ever had laid on head and heart and hand, As one who knows, where there's a task to do, Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command; Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow, That God makes instruments to work his will, |