Ellsworth

Who keeps his faith in God and man, 
     By sore temptation unsubdued — 
     Who trusts the right and loves the good,
Lives long, however brief his span.

True life is measured not by days,
     Nor yet by deeds though bravely wrought; 
     Its truest gauge is noblest thought,
And this commands our highest praise.

So, though men say, "Alas! how brief
     His course whose death we mourn to-day! 
     The prescient soul must answer, "Nay,
Ye wrong him with this bitter grief."

What seems our loss hath this redress: 
     His life, by generous will and act, 
     No dream, but an eternal fact,
Is rounded into perfectness.

He is, not was: the pulse that beat 
     But yesterday within his frame
     To-day is like a living flame 
In every manly breast we meet.

Poured through a thousand hearts, the life 
     That ebbed in his asserts its sway, 
     An impulse that forbids delay
When duty summons to the strife.

And hosts, by that grand impulse moved, 
     With eager haste their weapons clasp, 
     And swear to save from treason's grasp
The country and the cause he loved.

So sanctified by martyr-blood
     To us the cause is doubly dear; 
     And who, remembering him, will fear
To stand for right as Ellsworth stood ?

For faith like his its like begets, 
     And courage, though the hero die, 
     Doth multiply and multiply,
In large excess of our regrets.

And thus one soul that never swerved 
     From duty fills a land with light; 
     And countless arms are nerved for fight
By one strong arm that death unnerved.

So, best — since so the largest good 
     Results ; nor need we sum the cost, 
     For lives so lost are never lost
To freedom saved by martyr-blood.

For him henceforth his country claims 
     The ground as holy where he sleeps, 
     And, like a loving mother, keeps
His name among her dearest names.

And when love bids his monument 
     Lift its pure column to the air, 
     No fitter legend can it bear,
Than his brave words: "I am content! "

"Content, whatever fate be mine; 
     A sacred duty bids me go, 
     And though the issue none can know, 
I hear and heed the voice divine.

"Content — since confident that He
     To whom the sparrow's fall is known, 
     Will have some purpose of his own 
Even in the fate of one like me."

O golden words! O faith sublime!
     O spirit breathing holy breath!
     For such an one there is no death, 
But crescent potencies through time!

And still where loyal arms roll back 
     The crimson tide of traitorous war, 
     His memory, like a beacon star
Shall shine above the battle's rack;

A flame the patriot's heart to cheer, 
     And give new temper to his sword; 
     A fire to blast the rebel horde,
And melt their courage into fear.

And when, Rebellion's power subdued, 
     Shall dawn for us a better day, 
     When Peace again resumes her sway
And links the bands of brotherhood —

From North to South, from East to West, 
     His name shall be a household word, 
     Revered and loved wherever heard,
And treasured with our worthiest.

So, for his land, the good he meant, 
     Won in the triumph of the right, 
     His spirit, starred with heaven's own light,
Once more shall say: "I am content!"