Los Angeles daily herald., 1874-06-28

For there was nothing base or small
Or craven in his souls broad plan;
Forgiving all things personal,
He hated only wrong To man.
The old Il aditions of his State,
The memories of her great and good,
Took from his life fresher date,
And in himself embodied stood.
How felt the greed of gold and place,
The veual crew that schemed and planned
The fine scorn of that naughty face,
The spurnng of that bribeless hand!
Ifthan Rome's trbunes statelier
He wore his senatorial robe,
His lofty port was all for her,
The one dear spot ON all the gloDe.
If to the masters plea he gave
The vast contempt his manhood felt,
He saw a brother IN the slave
With man as equal man he dealt
Proud was he? If his presence kept
Is grandeur wheresoe'er he tod,
AS if from PlutarcnS gallery stepped
The hero and the demi-s d.
None failed, at least, 10 reach his ear.
Nor want nor woe appealed IN vain;
The homesick soldier knew his cheer,
And blessed h'm from his ward of pain.
Safely his dearest friends may own
The slight defects he never hid,
The surfac -blenish i'll the stone
OF the tall, stately pyramid.
Suffice it that he never brought
His conscience to the puollc mart;
Bat Lived hlmselfthe truth he taught,
Whlte-suuled, clean-handed,p pure of hear.
What if he felt the natural pride
OF power in noble use, too true
With thin humIlit!es TO hide
The work ne did, the lore he knew?
Was ne not just +? Was any wronged
BY that assured self-estimaie?
He took but what To aim 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 or men from age to age.
An! who shall blame him now because
He SOlaced thus his hours of pam!
Should not the oerworn thresher pause,
And hold to light his golden gram:
No sense OF humor dropped its oil
ON the hard ways his purpose went;
Small play of fancy lightened toll;
He spake alone the thing he meant.
He loved his books, the Art that hints
A beauty veiled behind its own,
The gIaver's line, the pencils 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,
The pine-grove whispered his theme;
Wherever he wandered, rock and beach
Were Forum and the Academic.
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 Tor rest.
For all his life was poor without;
oh 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 strair
OF low. sweet music overhead!
Nor cant nor poor solicitudes
Make weak his life's great argument;
Small leisure his for flames and moods
Who followed duty where she went.
The broad, fair field of God he saw
Beyond the bigot's narrow bound;
The truths he moulded into law,
In Christs beautitudes he found.
His State craft was the Golden Rule,
His right of vote a sacred trust;
Clear, over threat and ridicule,
All heard his challenge: " Is it just ~
And when the hour supreme had come,
Not for himself thought he gave;
In that last pang of martyrdom,
His care was for the half-freed slave.
Not vainly dusky hands upbore,
In prayer. the passing soul to Heaven
Whose mercy to the suffering poor
Was service to the Master given.
Long shall the good Sta'e's annals tell,
ITn. n Sc nj, : Il -. -,