His last great failure set the final seal Unto the record Time shall never tear, While bravery has its honor--while men feel The holy natural sympathies which are First, last and mightiest in the bosom. Where The tortured tides of Genesee descend, He came--his only intimate a bear-- (We know now that he had another friend), The martyr of renown, his wayward course to end. The fiend that from the infernal rivers stole Hell-drafts for man, too much tormented him; With nerves unstrung, but steadfast of his soul, He stood upon the salient current's brim; His head was giddy, and his sight was dim; And then he knew this leap would be his last-- Saw air, and earth, and water, wildly swim, With eyes of many multitudes, dense and vast, That stared in mockery; none a look of kindness cast. Beat down, in the huge amphitheatre, "I see before me the gladiator lie," And tier on tier, the myriads waiting there The bow of grace without one pitying eye-- He was a slave--a captive hired to die-- _Sam_ was born free as Caesar; and he might The hopeless issue have refused to try; No! with true leap, but soon with faltering flight-- "Deep in the roaring gulf, he plunged to endless night." But, ere he leapt, he begged of those who made Money by this dread venture, that if he Should perish, such collection should be paid As might be picked up from the "company" _To his Mother._ This, his last request, shall be-- Tho' she who bore him ne'er his fate should know-- An iris, glittering o'er his memory-- When all the streams have worn their barriers low, And, by the sea drunk up, forever cease to flow. On him who chooses to jump down cataracts, Why should the sternest moralist be severe? Judge not the dead by prejudice--but facts, Such as in strictest evidence appear. Else were the laurels of all ages sere. Give to the brave, who have passed the final goal-- The gates that ope not back--the generous tear; And let the muse's clerk upon her scroll In coarse, but honest verse, make up the judgment roll. _Therefore it is considered_ that Sam Patch Shall never be forgot in prose or rhyme; His name shall be a portion in the batch Of the heroic dough, which baking Time Kneads for consuming ages--and the chime Of Fame's old bells, long as they truly ring, Shall tell of him; he dived for the sublime, And found it. Thou, who, with the eagle's wing, Being a goose, would'st fly--dream not of such a thing! THE BRITISH MATRON (Anonymous)