How vainly numbers menace, rocks defy, Men sternly knit and firm to do or die; Or where, on thousands thousands crowding, rush (Rome knew not such a day) his ranks to crush, The long day paused on Buena Vista’s height, Above the cloud with flashing volleys bright; Till angry Freedom, hovering o’er the fray, Swooped down, and made a new Thermopylæ;— In every scene of peril and of pain, His were the toils, his country’s was the gain. From field to field, and all were nobly won, He bore, with eagle flight, her standard on: New stars rose there—but never star grew dim While in his patriot grasp. Weep not for him. The heart is ne’er a castaway; its gift Falls back, like dew to earth—the soul’s own thrift Of gentlest thoughts by noblest promptings moved: He loved his country, and by her was loved. To him she gave herself, a sacred trust, And bade him leave his sword to rest and rust; And, awed but calm, nor timid nor elate, He turned to tread the sandy stairs of state. Modest, though firm; decided, cautious, clear; Without a selfish hope, without a fear; Reverent of right, no warrior now, he still Cherished the nation’s chart, the people’s will; Hated but Faction with her maniac brand, And loved, with fiery love, his native land. Rose there a foe dared wrong in her despite, How eager leaped his soul to do her right! Her flag his canopy, her tents his home— The world in arms—why, let the armed world come! Thus loved he, more than life, and next to Heaven, The broad, bright land to which that life was given; And, loving thus and loved, the nation’s pride, Her hope, her strength, her stay—the patriot died! Weep not for him—though hurried from the scene: ’Twill be earth’s boast that such a life has been. Taintless his truth as Heaven; his soul sincere Sparkled to-day, as mountain brooklets clear. O’er every thought high honour watchful hung, As broods the eagle o’er her eyried young. His courage, in its calmness, silent, deep, But strong as fate—Niagara in its sleep; But when, in rage, it burst upon the foe— Niagara leaping to the gulf below. His clemency the graceful bow that, thrown O’er the wild wave, Heaven lights and makes its own. His was a spirit simple, grand and pure, Great to conceive, to do and to endure; Yet the rough warrior was, in heart, a child, Rich in love’s affluence, merciful and mild. His sterner traits, majestic and antique, Rivaled the stoic Roman or the Greek; Excelling both, he adds the Christian name,