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_From the “Cincinnati Commercial Gazette.”_
HE was a man of high faculties and purposes, and of great breadth of
sympathy. He had courage of heart equal to capacity of brain, and placed
in the core of the South, in her most busy city, and the undoubted
representative man of her ambition and progress, it is lamentable that
he should be lost to the country.
It seemed to be in no man’s grasp to do more good than he had appointed
for his task. He has done that which will be memorable. It is something
forever, to plow one deep furrow in fertile land for the seed that is in
the air.
He is dead, as the poets that are loved must die, still counting his
years in the thirties; and there is this compensation, that it may yet
be said of him in the South, as was so beautifully sung by Longfellow of
Burns in Scotland, that he haunts her fields in “immortal youth.”
And then to die so young, and leave
Unfinished what he might achieve.
... He haunts his native land
As an immortal youth; his hand
Guides every plow,
He sits beside each ingle-nook;
His voice is in each rushing brook,
Each rustling bough.
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