Weep not for him! The Thracians wisely gave Tears to the birth-couch, triumph to the grave. ’Tis misery to be born—to live—to die: Ev’n he who noblest lives, lives but to sigh. The right not shields from wrong, nor worth from wo, Nor glory from reproach; he found it so. Not strong life’s triumphs, not assured its truth; Ev’n virtue’s garland hides an aspic tooth. His glorious morn was past, and past his noon;— Life’s duty done, death never comes too soon. Then cast the dull grave’s gloomy trappings by! The dead was wise, was just—nor feared to die. Weep not for him. Go, mark his high career; It knew no shame, no folly and no fear. More blest than is man’s lot his blameless life, Though tost by tempests and though torn by strife. ’Neath the primeval forest’s towery pride, Virtue and Danger watched his couch beside; This taught him purely, nobly to aspire, That gave the nerve of steel and soul of fire. No time his midnight lamps—the stars—could dim; His matin music was the cataract’s hymn; His Academe the forest’s high arcade— (To Numa thus Egeria blessed the shade;) With kindling soul, the solitude he trod— The temple of high thoughts—and spake with God: Thus towered the man—amid the wide and wild— And Nature claimed him as her noblest child. Nurtured to peril, lo! the peril came, To lead him on, from field to field, to fame. ’Twas met as warriors meet the fray they woo: To shield young Freedom’s wild-wood homes he flew; And—fire within his fortress, foes without, The rattling death-shot and th’ infuriate shout— He, where the fierce flames burst their smoky wreath, And war’s red game raged madliest, toyed with death; Till spent the storm, and Victory’s youngest son Glory’s first fruits, his earliest wreath, had won. Weep not for him, whose lustrous life has known No field of fame he has not made his own: In many a fainting clime, in many a war, Still bright-browed Victory drew the patriot’s car. Whether he met the dusk and prowling foe By oceanic Mississippi’s flow; Or where the southern swamps, with steamy breath, Smite the worn warrior with no warrior’s death; Or where, like surges on the rolling main, Squadron on squadron sweep the prairie plain; Dawn—and the field the haughty foe o’erspread, Sunset—and Rio Grande’s waves run red; Or where, from rock-ribbed safety, Monterey Frowns death, and dares him to the unequal fray; Till crashing walls and slippery streets bespeak How frail the fortress where the heart is weak;