o dash against the unseen rock, and in
an instant hear the billows roar above a sunken ship. For
whether in mid-sea or 'mong the breakers of the farther
shore, a wreck at last must mark the end of each and all.
And every life, no matter if its every hour is rich with
love and every moment jeweled with a joy, will, at its
close, become a tragedy as sad and deep and dark as can be
woven of the warp and woof of mystery and death. This brave
and tender man in every storm of life was oak and rock; but
in the sunshine he was vine and flower.

He was the friend of heroic souls. He climbed the heights,
and left all superstition far below, while on his forehead
fell the golden dawning of the grander day. He loved the
beautiful, and was with color, form, and music touched to
tears. He sided with the weak and with a willing hand gave
alms. With loyal heart and with the purest hands he
faithfully discharged all public trusts. He was a worshiper
of liberty, a friend of the oppressed. A thousand times I
have heard him quote these words: "For justice, all place a
temple and all season summer."

He believed that happiness was the only good, reason the
only torch, justice the only worship, humanity the only
religion, and love the only priest. He added to the sum of
human joy; and were every one to whom he did a loving
service to bring a blossom to his grave, he would sleep
to-night beneath a wilderness of flowers.

Life is a narrow vale between the cold and barren peaks of
two eternities. We strive in vain to look beyond the
heights. We cry aloud, and the only answer is the echo of
our wailing cry. From the voiceless lips of the unreplying
dead there comes no word; but in the night of death hope
sees a star and listening love can hear the rustle of a
wing. He who sleeps here when dying, mistaking the approach
of death for the return of health, whispered with his latest
breath, "I am better now."

Let us believe, in spite of doubts and dogmas, of fears and
tears, that these dear words are true of all the countless
dead. And now, to you, who have been chosen from among the
many men he loved to do the last sad office for the dead, we
give his sacred dust. Speech cannot contain our love. There
was, there is no gentler, stronger, manlier man.

America's First Great Poem