culture—but such trees large fruit may bear,
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If but their stocks be of right girth and grain.
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So he grew up, a destined work to do,
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And lived to do it: four long, suffering years
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Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through,
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And then he heard the hisses change to cheers,
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The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise,
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And took both with the same unwavering mood;
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Till, as he came on light, from darkling days,
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And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood,
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A felon hand, between the goal and him,
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Beached from behind his back, a trigger prest—
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And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim,
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Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest!
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The words of mercy were upon his lips,
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Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen,
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When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse
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To thoughts of peace on earth, goodwill to men.
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The Old World and the New, from sea to sea,
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Utter one voice of sympathy and shame!
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Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high;
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Sad life, cut short as its triumph came!
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The Old Clock on the Stairs
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