None failed, at least, to reach his ear, Nor want nor woe appealed in vain; The homesick soldier knew his cheer, And blessed him from his ward of pain. Safely his dearest friends may own The slight defects he never hid, The surface-blemish in the stone Of the tall, stately pyramid. Suffice it that he never brought His conscience to the public mart; But lived himself the truth he taught, White-souled, clean-handed, pure of heart. What if he felt the natural pride Of power in noble use, too true With thin humilities to hide The work he did, the lore he knew? Was he not just? Was any wronged By that assured self-estimate? He took but what to him belonged, Unenvious of another's state. Well might he heed the words he spake, And scan with care the written page Through which he still shall warm and wake The hearts of men from age to age. Ah! who shall blame him now because He solaced thus his hours of pain! Should not the o'erworn thresher pause, And hold to light his golden grain? No sense of humor dropped its oil On the hard ways his purpose went; Small play of fancy lightened toil; He spake alone the thing he meant. He loved his books, the Art that hints A beauty veiled behind its own, The graver's line, the pencil's tints, The chisel's shape evoked from stone. He cherished, void of selfish ends, The social courtesies that bless And sweeten life, and loved his friends With most unworldly tenderness. But still his tired eyes rarely learned The glad relief by Nature brought; Her mountain ranges never turned His current of persistent thought. The sea rolled chorus to his speech Three-banked like Latium's' tall trireme, With laboring oars; the grove and beach Were Forum and the Academe. The sensuous joy from all things fair His strenuous bent of soul repressed, And left from youth to silvered hair Few hours for pleasure, none for rest. For all his life was poor without, O Nature, make the last amends Train all thy flowers his grave about, And make thy singing-birds his friends! Revive again, thou summer rain, The broken turf upon his bed Breathe, summer wind, thy tenderest strain Of low, sweet music overhead! With calm and beauty symbolize The peace which follows long annoy, And lend our earth-bent, mourning eyes, Some hint of his diviner joy. For safe with right and truth he is, As God lives he must live alway; There is no end for souls like his, No night for children of the day! Nor cant nor poor solicitudes Made weak his life's great argument; Small leisure his for frames and moods Who followed Duty where she went.