The world has owned its heroes;—­
  Its martyrs, great and good,
Who rode the storm of power,
  Or swam the sea of blood:—­
Napoleons, Caesars, Cromwells,
  Melancthons, Luthers brave! 
But, who than Jackson ever yet
  Has filled a prouder grave?

The cause for which he struggled,
  May fall before the foe: 
Stout hearts, devoted to their trust,
  All moulder, cold and low. 
The land may prove a charnel-house
  For millions of the slain,
And blood and carnage mark the track
  Where madmen march amain,—­
Fanatic heels may scourge it,
  Black demons blight the sod;
And hell’s foul desolation
  Mock Liberty’s fair God.—­
The future leave no record,
  Of mighty struggle there,
Save hollowness, and helplessness,
  And bitter, bald despair.—­
Proud cities lose their names e’en;
  Tall towers fall to earth.—­
Mount Vernon fade, and Westmoreland
  Forget illustrious birth;—­
And yet, upon tradition,
  Will float the name of him
Whose virtues time may tarnish not,
  Eternity not dim. 
Whose life on earth was only,
  So grand, so free, so pure,
For brighter realms and sunnier skies,
  A preparation sure. 
And whose sweet faith, so child-like,
  Nor blast, nor surge nor rod,
One moment could avert from
  The bosom of his God.

Bury the mighty dead! 
  Long, long to live in story! 
Bury the hero dead
  In his own shroud of glory!

IN MEMORIAM.

FRANK M. CRUIKSHANK, DIED 1862.

Frank is dead!  The mournful message
  Comes gushing from the ocean’s roar. 
Frank is dead!  His mortal passage
  Has ended on the heavenly shore. 
In earthly agony he died
To join his Saviour crucified.

Frank is dead!  Time’s bitter trials
  Drove him a wanderer from home,
To meet life’s lot, share its denials,
  Or gain a rest where cares ne’er come. 
His frail form sinking, his grand spirit
Careered to realms the blest inherit.

Frank is dead!  In life’s young morning,
  When heavenly promise lit his day,
His smitten spirit, homeward turning,
  Forsook its tenement of clay. 
No more to battle here with sin;
No more to suffer mid earth’s din.

Frank is dead!  By fever stricken,
  How long he suffered, and how deep! 
With none to feel his hot blood quicken,
  No loved one near to calm his sleep. 
No mother’s presence him to gladden: 
Naught, naught to cheer—­all, all to sadden.

Frank is dead!  His pangs are over. 
  His gentle spirit hence has flown. 
Strangers, with earth, his body cover,
  Strangers attend his dying moan. 
On stranger forms his eyes last close,
To meet A FRIEND in their repose.

Frank is dead!  Aye! weep, fond mourner! 
  The grand, the beautiful is lost. 
Too pure for earth, the meek sojourner,
  On passion’s billows tempest-tossed,
Has found a source of sweeter bliss
In realms that sunder wide from this.