( WRITTEN ON THE NIGHT OF HIS SUICIDE )

" De mortuis nil nisi bonum . " When
— — For me this end has come and I am dead,
And the little voluble, chattering daws of men
— — Peck at me curiously, let it then be said
By some one brave enough to speak the truth:
— — Here lies a great soul killed by cruel wrong.
Down all the balmy days of his fresh youth
— — To his bleak, desolate noon, with sword and song,
And speech that rushed up hotly from the heart,
— — He wrought for liberty, till his own wound
(He had been stabbed), concealed with painful art
— — Through wasting years, mastered him, and he swooned
And sank there where you see him lying now
With the word " Failure " written on his brow.

But say that he succeeded. If he missed
— — World's honors, and world's plaudits, and the wage
Of the world's deft lacqueys, still his lips were kissed
— — Daily by those high angels who assuage
The thirstings of the poets — for he was
— — Born unto singing — and a burthen lay
Mightily on him, and he moaned because
— — He could not rightly utter to the day
What God taught in the night. Sometimes, nathless,
— — Power fell upon him, and bright tongues of flame,
And blessings reached him from poor souls in stress;
— — And benedictions from black pits of shame,
And little children's love, and old men's prayers,
And a Great Hand that led him unawares.

So he died rich. And if his eyes were blurred
— — With big films — silence! he is in his grave.
Greatly he suffered; greatly, too, he erred;
— — Yet broke his heart in trying to be brave.
Nor did he wait till Freedom had become
— — The popular shibboleth of courtier's lips;
He smote for her when God Himself seemed dumb
— — And all His arching skies were in eclipse.
He was a-weary, but he fought his fight,
— — And stood for simple manhood; and was joyed
To see the august broadening of the light
— — And new earths heaving heavenward from the void.
He loved his fellows, and their love was sweet —
Plant daisies at his head and at his feet.