Each searching from too near a view
To read the soul of all our souls most true,—
He went his way, unselfish, minist'ring;
But in the bud and promise-time of Spring
He died—and then we knew.[1]
So in the years to come, when we shall sleep,
Tired pilgrims, at life's everlasting goal,
And the hid hands, that faithful minutes keep,
Shall all the record of our times unroll,
Our sons shall read, emblazoned on the scroll,
His name revered and great,
Who sways our continent with mild control:
Pilot whom war tempestuous could not whelm,
Who stood through every peril at the helm,
Guiding to peaceful port our Ship of State.
He neither needs our praise nor vindication,
Who in the coming years shall take his place
With the wise rulers of the English race;
A leader of the strength that fits a free-born nation![2]
America, my home!—how dear to-day!
In beauty and augmented splendor,
With smile of mother-love so tender
