So he went forth to battle, on the side
   That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's.
As in his peasant boyhood he had plied
   His warfare with rude nature's thwarting mights-
The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear-
   Such were the needs that helped his youth to train:
Rough culture but such trees large fruit may bear,
   If but their stocks be of right girth and grain.
So he grew up, a destined work to do,
   And lived to do it: four long-suffering years'
 Ill-fate, ill-fortune, ill-report, lived through,
   And then he heard the hisses change to cheers-
 The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise,
   And took both with the same unwavering mood:
Till, as he came on light, from darkling days,
   And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood,
A felon hand, between the goal and him,
   Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest-
 And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim,
   Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to restl
The words of mercy were upon his lips,
   Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen,
 When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse
   To thoughts of peace on earth, good-will to men.
 The Old World and the New, from sea to sea,
   Utter one voice of sympathy and shame!
 Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high,
   Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came.
 A deed accurst! Strokes have been struck before
   By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt
 If more of horror or disgrace they bore;
   But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out.
 Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife,
   Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven;
 And with the martyr's crown crownest a life
   With much to praise, little to be forgiven!
 The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil,
   The iron-bark, that turns the laborer's axe,
 The rapid that o'erbears the boatman's toil,
   The prairie, hiding the mazed wandeier's tracks.
The editor of London Punch at this time was Tom Taylor.