The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 4.
John Greenleaf Whittier, Ed.

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[130] One language held his heart and lip,
     Straight onward to his goal he trod,
And proved the highest statesmanship
     Obedience to the voice of God.

No wail was in his voice,—none heard,
     When treason's storm-cloud blackest grew,
The weakness of a doubtful word;
     His duty, and the end, he knew.

The first to smite, the first to spare;
     When once the hostile ensigns fell,
He stretched out hands of generous care
     To lift the foe he fought so well.

For there was nothing base or small
     Or craven in his soul's broad plan;
Forgiving all things personal,
     He hated only wrong to man.

The old traditions of his State,
     The memories of her great and good,
Took from his life a fresher date,
     And in himself embodied stood.

How felt the greed of gold and place,
     The venal crew that schemed and planned,
The fine scorn of that haughty face,
     The spurning of that bribeless hand!

If than Rome's tribunes statelier
     He wore his senatorial robe,
His lofty port was all for her,
     The one dear spot on all the globe.