The sod is o'er the dauntless head, the fierce old eyes are dim and dead, the martial heart is dust; they say he died in sanctity, and his wild soul, of fetters free, went forth to join the just. But will the joys of Paradise, as we imagine them, suffice to hold Geronimo? Will joyous song and endless calm to that bold spirit be a balm, while silent eons flow? But Heaven is a region fair, and there may be long reaches there, to give the savage space to ride his steed o'er field and fell and raise his fierce, defiant yell, in foray and in race. The Judge who knows the hearts of men may find a desert or a glen for souls that love the wild; and through the gates perchance may jog the hunter's pinto and his dog, his painted squaw and child.