O loss! O splendor! Thou, the “White Squaw's Son,”
Bred in the blanket, boyhood wild as wind,
Giving, our learning's highest honors won,
Thy gallant life for victories of mind!

Thy tribal kin, to whom thine heart was true
As sun to earth, are proud their brave should die
A glorious war-death, but among them who
Can comprehend thy holy battle-cry?

The votary of Science, it was thine
By subtle sympathies of blood to scan
Mysterious movings of the dim Divine
Ascending slowly through the brute to man.

None knew so well the perils of thy quest,
As in those fatal isles, from year to year,
Thou wert of savages the gentle guest,
Plying thy task too busily for fear.

O rare young scholar, such as thwarted Time
May hardly mould again, what records sum
Thy daily courage carelessly sublime,
Thy magnanimity of martyrdom!