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,