The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 16, No. 96, October 1865

Long a-hungered to rouse
A Nation's heart for the nonce,—
(Hugging his hell, so that once
He might yet bring down the house!)—

From the commons, gross and simple,
Of a blind and bloody land,
(Long fed on venomous lies!)—
To the horrid heart and hand
That sumless murder dyes,—
The hand that drew the wimple
Over those cruel eyes.

Pass on,—your deeds are done,
Forever sets your sun;
Vainly ye lived or died,
'Gainst Freedom and the Laws,—
And your memory and your cause
Shall haunt o'er the trophied tide

Like some Pirate Caravel floating
Dreadful, adrift—whose crew
From her yard-arms dangle rotting,—
The old Horror of the blue.

Avoid ye,—let the morrow
Sentence or mercy see.
Pass to your place: our sorrow
Is all too dark to borrow
One shade from such as ye.

But if one, with merciful eyes,
From the forgiving skies
Looks, 'mid our gloom, to see
Yonder where Murder lies,
Stripped of the woman guise,
And waiting the doom,—'tis he.

Kindly Spirit!—Ah, when did treason
Bid such a generous nature cease,
Mild by temper and strong by reason,
But ever leaning to love and peace?

A head how sober! a heart how spacious!
A manner equal with high or low;
Rough, but gentle; uncouth, but gracious;
And still inclining to lips of woe.

Patient when saddest, calm when sternest,
Grieved when rigid for justice' sake;
Given to jest, yet ever in earnest,
If aught of right or truth were at stake.

Simple of heart, yet shrewd therewith;
Slow to resolve, but firm to hold;
Still with parable and with myth
Seasoning truth, like Them of old;
Aptest humor and quaintest pith!
(Still we smile o'er the tales he told.)

And if, sometimes, in saddest stress,
That mind, over-meshed by fate,
(Ringed round with treason and hate,
And guiding the State by guess,)
Could doubt and could hesitate,—
Who, alas! had done less
In the world's most deadly strait?

But how true to the Common Cause!
Of his task how unweary!
How hard he worked, how good he was,
How kindly and cheery!

How, while it marked redouble
The howls and hisses and sneers,
That great heart bore our trouble
Through all these terrible years,—

And, cooling passion with state,
And ever counting the cost,
Kept the Twin World-Robbers in wait
Till the time for their clutch was lost!

How much he cared for the State,
How little for praise or pelf!
A man too simply great
To scheme for his proper self.

But in mirth that strong heart rested
From its strife with the false and violent,—
A jester!—So Henry jested,
So jested William the Silent.

Orange, shocking the dull
With careless conceit and quip,
Yet holding the dumb heart full
With Holland's life on his lip![4 - "His temperament was cheerful. At table, the pleasures of which in moderation were his only relaxation, he was always animated and merry; and this jocoseness was partly natural, partly intentional. In the darkest hours of his country's trial, he affected a serenity he was far from feeling; so that his apparent gayety at momentous epochs was even censured by dullards, who could not comprehend its philosophy, nor applaud the flippancy of William the Silent. He went through life bearing the load of a people's sorrows with a smiling face."—Motley's Rise of the Dutch Republic.Perhaps a lively national sense of humor is one of the surest exponents of advanced civilization. Certainly a grim sullenness and fierceness have been the leading traits of the Rebellion for Slavery; while Freedom, like a Brave at the stake, has gone through her long agony with a smile and a jest ever on her lips.]

Navarre, bonhomme and pleasant,
Pitying the poor man's lot,