Death, bearing palms in hand and crowns of song;
  His face, who thought to vanquish wrong with wrong,
Erring, and make rage and redemption meet,
Havoc and freedom; weaving in one weft
Good with his right hand, evil with his left;
  But all a hero lived and erred and died;
Looked thus upon the living world he left
  So bravely that with pity less than pride
  Men hail him Patriot and Tyrannicide.

EVENING ON THE BROADS.

Over two shadowless waters, adrift as a pinnace in peril,
  Hangs as in heavy suspense, charged with irresolute light,
Softly the soul of the sunset upholden awhile on the sterile
  Waves and wastes of the land, half repossessed by the night. 
Inland glimmer the shallows asleep and afar in the breathless
  Twilight:  yonder the depths darken afar and asleep. 
Slowly the semblance of death out of heaven descends on the deathless
  Waters:  hardly the light lives on the face of the deep—­
Hardly, but here for awhile.  All over the grey soft shallow
  Hover the colours and clouds of the twilight, void of a star. 
As a bird unfledged is the broad-winged night, whose winglets are callow
  Yet, but soon with their plumes will she cover her brood from afar,
Cover the brood of her worlds that cumber the skies with their blossom
  Thick as the darkness of leaf-shadowed spring is encumbered with flowers. 
World upon world is enwound in the bountiful girth of her bosom,
  Warm and lustrous with life lovely to look on as ours. 
Still is the sunset adrift as a spirit in doubt that dissembles
  Still with itself, being sick of division and dimmed by dismay—­
Nay, not so; but with love and delight beyond passion it trembles,
  Fearful and fain of the night, lovely with love of the day: 
Fain and fearful of rest that is like unto death, and begotten
  Out of the womb of the tomb, born of the seed of the grave: 
Lovely with shadows of loves that are only not wholly forgotten,
  Only not wholly suppressed by the dark as a wreck by the wave. 
Still there linger the loves of the morning and noon, in a vision
  Blindly beheld, but in vain:  ghosts that are tired, and would rest. 
But the glories beloved of the night rise all too dense for division,
  Deep in the depth of her breast sheltered as doves in a nest. 
Fainter the beams of the loves of the daylight season enkindled
  Wane, and the memories of hours that were fair with the love of them
          fade: 
Loftier, aloft of the lights of the sunset stricken and dwindled,
  Gather the signs of the love at the heart of the night new-made. 
New-made night, new-born of the sunset, immeasurable, endless,
  Opens the secret of love hid from of old in her heart,
In the deep sweet heart full-charged with faultless love of the friendless
  Spirits of men that are eased when the wheels of the sun depart.