The victim of thy genius, not its mate!”
      Life may be given in many ways,
      And loyalty to Truth be sealed 135
    As bravely in the closet as the field,
        So generous is Fate;
        But then to stand beside her,
        When craven churls deride her,
    To front a lie in arms and not to yield,—­ 140
        This shows, methinks, God’s plan
        And measure of a stalwart man,
        Limbed like the old heroic breeds,
      Who stands self-poised on manhood’s solid earth,
      Not forced to frame excuses for his birth, 145
    Fed from within with all the strength he needs.

VI

    Such was he, our Martyr-Chief,
      Whom late the Nation he had led,
      With ashes on her head,
    Wept with the passion of an angry grief:  150
    Forgive me, if from present things I turn
    To speak what in my heart will beat and burn,
    And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn. 
        Nature, they say, doth dote,
        And cannot make a man 155
        Save on some worn-out plan,
        Repeating us by rote: 
    For him her Old-World mould aside she threw,
      And, choosing sweet clay from the breast
        Of the unexhausted West, 160
    With stuff untainted shaped a hero new,
    Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true. 
        How beautiful to see
    Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed,
    Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead; 165
    One whose meek flock the people joyed to be,
      Not lured by any cheat of birth,
      But by his clear-grained human worth,
    And brave old wisdom of sincerity! 
      They knew that outward grace is dust; 170
      They could not choose but trust
    In that sure-footed mind’s unfaltering skill,
        And supple-tempered will
    That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust. 
        Nothing of Europe here, 175
    Or, then, of Europe fronting morn-ward still,
        Ere any names of Serf and Peer
      Could Nature’s equal scheme deface;
      Here was a type of the true elder race,
    And one of Plutarch’s men talked with us face to face. 180
      I praise him not; it were too late;
    And some innative weakness there must be
    In him who condescends to victory
    Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait,
      Safe in himself as in a fate. 185
        So always firmly he: 
        He knew to bide his time,
        And can his fame abide,
    Still patient in his simple