There is no record left on earth, Save in tablets of the heart,

Of the rich inherent worth,
Of the grace that on him shone,
Of eloquent lips, of joyful wit:
He could not frame a word unfit,
An act unworthy to be done;
Honor prompted every glance,
Honor came and sat beside him,
In lowly cot or painful road,

And evermore the cruel god

Cried "Onward!" and the palm-crown showed,

Born for success he seemed,

With grace to win, with heart to hold,
With shining gifts that took all eyes,
With budding power in college-halls,
As pledged in coming days, to forge
Weapons to guard the State, or scourge
Tyrants despite their guards or walls.
On his young promise Beauty smiled,
Drew his free homage unbeguiled,
And prosperous Age held out his hand,
And richly his large future planned,
And troops of friends enjoyed the tide,
All, all was given, and only health denied.

I see him with superior smile Hunted by Sorrow's grisly train In lands remote, in toil and pain,

With angel patience labor on,
With the high port he wore erewhile,
When, foremost of the youthful band,
The prizes in all lists he won;

Nor bate one jot of heart or hope,'
And, least of all, the loyal tie

Which holds to home 'neath every sky,

The joy and pride the pilgrim feels

In hearts which round the hearth at home Keep pulse for pulse with those who roam.

What generous beliefs console

The brave whom Fate denies the goal!
If others reach it, is content;

To Heaven's high will his will is bent.

Firm on his heart relied,

What lot soe'er betide,

Work of his hand

He nor repents nor grieves,
Pleads for itself the fact,
As unrepenting Nature leaves
Her every act.

Fell the bolt on the branching oak; The rainbow of his hope was broke; No craven cry, no secret tear,

He told no pang, he knew no fear;

Its peace sublime his aspect kept,
His purpose woke, his features slept ;
And yet between the spasms of pain
His genius beamed with joy again.

O'er thy rich dust the endless smile
Of Nature in thy Spanish isle
Hints never loss or cruel break
And sacrifice for love's dear sake,
Nor mourn the unalterable Days
That Genius goes and Folly stays.
What matters how, or from what ground,
The freed soul its Creator found?

Alike thy memory embalms

That orange-grove, that isle of palms,

And these loved banks, whose oak-boughs bold Root in the blood of heroes old.