The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear; Such were the deeds that helped his youth to

train:

Rough culture,- but such trees large fruit may bear,

If but their stocks be of right girth and grain.

So he grew up, a destined work to do,

And lived to do it: four long suffering years, Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through,

And then he heard the hisses change to cheers.

The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise,

And took both with the same unwavering mood: Till, as he came on light, from darkling days, And seem to touch the goal from where he stood,

A felon hand, between the goal and him,

Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest,— And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim, Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest!

The words of mercy were upon his lips,
Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen,
When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse
To thoughts of peace on earth, good-will to men.

The Old World and the New, from sea to sea,
Utter one voice of sympathy and shame!
Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high;
Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came,

A deed accurst! Strokes have been struck before
By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt
If more of horror or disgrace they bore;

But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out.

Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife,
Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven;
And with the martyr's crown crownest a life
With much to praise, little to be forgiven.

VI

TRIBUTES

THE MARTYR CHIEF1

From the Harvard Commemoration Ode,

BY JAMES RUSSEL LOWELL

Life may be given in many ways,
And loyalty to Truth be sealed
As bravely in the closet as the field,
So generous is Fate;

But then to stand beside her,
When craven churls deride her,
To front a lie in arms, and not to yield—
This shows, methinks, God's plan

And measure of a stalwart man,
Limbed, like the old heroic breeds,

Who stands self-poised on manhood's solid earth,

Not forced to frame excuses for his birth, Fed from within with all the strength he needs. Such was he, our Martyr Chief,

Whom late the nation he had led,

With ashes on her head,

Wept with the passion of an angry grief:
Forgive me, if from present things I turn
To speak what in my heart will beat and burn,
And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn.
Nature, they say, doth dote,
And cannot make a man
Save on some worn-out plan,
Repeating us by rote:

1 By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Company.