Reckless, so it could point its paragraph,

Of chief's perplexity or people's pain,

Beside this corpse, that bears for windingsheet

The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear

anew,

Between the mourners at his head and feet, Say, scurrile jester, is there room for you?

Yes: he had lived to shame me from my

sneer,

To lame my pencil and confute my pen; To make me own this hind of princes peer, This rail-splitter, a true-born king of

men.

My shallow judgment I had learn'd to rue, Noting how to occasion's height he rose ; How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true;

How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows;

How humble, yet how hopeful he could be;

How in good fortune and in ill the same; Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he,

Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame.

He went about his work, such work as few Ever had laid on head and heart and hand,

As one who knows, where there's a task to do,

Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command;

Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow,

That God makes instruments to work

his will,

If but that will we can arrive to know,

The rapid that o'erbears the boatman's toil,

The prairie hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks,

The ambush'd Indian, and the prowling bear,

Such were the deeds that help'd his youth to train :

Rough culture, but such trees large fruit may bear,

If but their stocks be of right girth and

grain.

So he grew up, a destined work to do,
And lived to do it; four long-suffering

years'

Ill fate, ill feeling, ill report lived through, And then he heard the hisses change to

cheers,

The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise, And took both with the same unwaver

ing mood,

Till, as he came on light, from darkling days,

And seem'd to touch the goal from where he stood,

A felon hand, between the goal and him, Reach'd from behind his back, a trigger prest,

And those perplex'd and patient eyes were dim,

Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest.

The words of mercy were upon his lips, Forgiveness in his heart and on his

pen,

painted

The ruddy tints of health

holly

And laurel leaves entwine,

and fainted

This spray of Western pine!

FRANCIS BRET HARTE.

HESTER.

WHEN maidens such as Hester die, Their place ye may not well supply, Though ye among a thousand try, With vain endeavor.

A month or more hath she been dead,
Yet cannot I by force be led
To think upon the wormy bed
And her, together.

A springy motion in her gait,
A rising step did indicate
Of pride and joy no common rate,
That flush'd her spirit;

I know not by what name beside
I shall it call: if 'twas not pride,
It was a joy to that allied,

She did inherit.