'Tis just one man at Elberon, Who waiteth day by day, Whose patience all our hearts hath won As ebbs his life away. His birthday waked no cannon-boom; No purple round him hung; A backwoods cabin gave him room; And storms his welcome sung. He seized the sceptre of that king Who treads a freehold sod; He wore upon his brow that ring That crowns a son of God. By his own might he built a throne, With no unhuman arts, And by his manhood reigned alone O'er fifty millions hearts. Thus is humanity's long dream, Its highest, holiest hope begun To harden into fact, and gleam A city 'neath the sun-- A city, not like that which came In old-time vision from the skies; But wrought by man through blood and flame, From solid earth to rise,-- Man's city; the ideal reign Where every human right hath place; Where blood, nor birth, nor priest again Shall bind the weary race,-- _In which no king but man shall be_. 'Twas this that thrilled with loving pain The heart of all the earth, as he Died by the sobbing main. For, mightiest ruler of the earth, He was the mightiest, not because Of priestly touch or blood, or birth. But by a people's laws. * * * * * O Garfield! brave and patient soul! Long as the tireless tides shall roll About the _Long Branch_ beaches, where Thy life went out upon the air, So long thy land, from sea to sea, Will hold thy manhood's legacy. There _were_ two parties: there were those, In thine own party, called thy foes; There _was_ a North; there _was_ a South, Ere blazed the assassin's pistol-mouth. But lo! thy bed became a throne: And as the hours went by, at length The weakness of thine arm alone Grew mightier than thy strongest strength. No petulant murmur; no vexed cry Of balked ambitions; but a high, Grand patience! And thy whisper blent In one heart all the continent. To-day there are no factions left, But _one America_ bereft. * * * * * O Garfield! fortunate in death wast thou, Though at the opening of a grand career! Thou wast a meteor flashing on the brow Of skies political, where oft appear, And disappear, so many stars of promise. Then, While all men watched thy high course, wondering If them wouldst upward sweep, or fell again, Thee from thine orbit mad hands thought to fling; And lo! the meteor, with its fitful light, All on a sudden stood, and was a star,-- A radiance fixed, to glorify the night There where the world's proud constellations are. _Boston Globe._ J. A. G. BY JULIA WARD HOWE.