WITH WALKER IN NICARAGUA.

I.

E was a brick, and brave as a bear,

As brave as Nevada's grizzlies are,

A Texan tigress in her lair,

Or any lion of anywhere;

Yet gentle as a panther is,

Mouthing her young in her first fierce kiss,

And true of soul as the north pole-star;

Tall, courtly, grand as any king,

Yet simple as a child at play,

In

camp and court the same alway,

And never moved at any thing;
A dash of sadness in his air,
Born, may be, of his over care,
And, may be, born of a despair

In early love I never knew ;
I question'd not, as many do,

Of things as sacred as this is;

I only knew that he to me

Was all a father, friend, could be ;

I sought to know no more than this Of history of him or his.

A piercing eye, a princely air, A presence like a chevalier,

Half angel and half Lucifer;

Fair fingers, jewell'd manifold

With great gems set in hoops of gold;
Sombraro black, with plume of snow
That swept his long silk locks below;
A red serape with bars of gold,
Heedless falling, fold on fold;

A sash of silk, where flashing swung
A sword as swift as serpent's tongue,
In sheath of silver chased in gold;
A face of blended pride and pain,
Of mingled pleading and disdain,

With shades of glory and of grief;

And Spanish spurs with bells of steel
That dash'd and dangled at the heel-
The famous filibuster chief,

By his white tent mid tall brown trees
That top the fierce Cordilleras,

With brown arm arch'd above his brow,
Stood still-he stands, a picture, now—
Long gazing down the sunset seas.

Success had made him more than king, Defeat made him the vilest thing In name, contempt or hate can bring; So much the leaded dice of war

Do make or mar of character.

Speak ill who will of him, he died

In all disgrace; say of the dead

His heart was black, his hands were red; Say this much, and be satisfied;

Gloat over it all undenied ;

I only say that he to me,

Whatever he to others was,

Was truer far than any one

That I have known beneath the sun,

Man, maid, or saint, or Sadducee,

As boy or man for any cause—

I simply say he was my friend

When strong of hand and fair of fame: Dead and disgraced, I stand the same To him, and so shall to the end.

I lay this crude wreath on his dust, A wild wreath of sad memories

Recall'd here by these colder seas.

I leave the wild bird with his trust, To sing and say him nothing wrong; I wake no rivalry of song.

He lies low in the levell'd sand, Unshelter'd from the tropic sun,

And now of all he knew not one

Will speak him fair in that far land.

Perhaps 'twas this that made me seek,
Disguised, his grave one winter-tide;
A weakness for the weaker side,

A siding with the helpless weak.

A palm not far held out a hand, Hard by a long green bamboo swung, And bent like some great bow unstrung, And quiver'd like a willow wand; Beneath a broad banana's leaf,

Perch'd on its fruits that crooked hang,

A bird in rainbow splendour sang

A low sad song of temper'd grief.

No sod, no sign, no cross or stone,

But at his side a cactus green
Upheld its lances long and keen ;

It stood in hot red sands alone,

Flat-palm'd and fierce with lifted

spears;

One bloom of crimson crown'd its head, A drop of blood, so bright, so red,

Yet redolent as roses' tears.