Lincoln
I HEARD the solemn bells that flung
The mournful tidings to the air—
The tale of horror and despair,
From many a belfry's iron tongue.
I saw the flag he loved so well,
Sad with the crapes of woe,
Droop heavily and low,
From dome and mast and citadel,—
The quivering lip, and half-suspended breath
Of him who listened to the tale of death,
As friend to friend rehearsed
That crime without a name, abhorred! accurst!
And those last hours when slowly ebbed away—
As mute and motionless he lay,
The life of him who since the world began,
Best earned the title of an honest man!
To-day the solemn pageant goes,
That bears him to his last repose,
As if some midnight cloud had past
Athwart the noonday sun, and sent
Its sudden shadow, black and vast,
Across the frightened continent—
To-day from forge, and mart, and mill,
All sound and sign of commerce flits;
And in a thousand rooms,
Among the idle looms,
Lone Silence like a widow sits,
And many-fingered Industry is still!
O L INCOLN , kind and just!
O steadfast to thy trust,
To keep from death the hope of Liberty!
Savior of the Republic! long for thee
Shall countless freemen mourn, and hold thy name
Revered, beloved, a legacy of Fame!
Hark! while a Nation's bells are tolled,
Swinging sonorous,
In iron chorus,
For a People's sorrow uncontrolled!
Ring! until the mighty knell is rolled,
In long reverberations manifold,
O'er prairies wild and savage seas,
From cliff to cliff, from breeze to breeze,
Till the last sentry on the far frontier,
Shall pause upon his lonely beat to hear
The trackless forests to the thunder shiver,
Of Freedom's echoes, sounding on forever!
Mourn, generous Nation! mourn for him whose word
Seemed sometimes quaintly wise and mild—
The artless language of a child,
Yet sometimes like an Angel's of the Lord!
Mourn for the ruler whose sublime decree,
Tremendous as a thunder-stroke
Of righteous retribution, broke
Those cruel chains, our curse and long disgrace,
That bound to hopeless toil a weaker race,
And made it “Henceforth and forever free!”
Mourn for the Pilot, whose sagacious eye
Could on the lurid verge descry
Rebellion's threatening star—
Blood-red, and ominous of war:
And who at last when Treason's storm of hate
Broke o'er the Ship of State,
Sprang to the helm, and with a giant's arm,
Held her amid the whirlpools and the shocks
Of maddened surges and of hidden rocks,
Till he beheld the angry tumult cease,
And brought her without harm,
Into a port of peace,
Across those perilous seas,
With all her colors flying in the breeze!
Let the great bells of sorrow toll,
And the drums in muffled thunder roll,
For Freedom's martyr, peace unto his soul!
Let the sable car roll on—
Slowly toward the setting sun,
Nobly hath he wrought and won,
And on earth his work is done!
While the funeral trumpets blow,
And populous cities overflow
With vast fraternities of woe—
Bear him on while thousands weep,
To his long and lasting sleep.
From the highest seat on earth,
To the quiet valley of his birth,
Bring him tenderly, that here
The hand of the awakening Year,
May strew her earliest blossoms on the dust
Of the wise, the good, the just!
With trailing banner and with sable plume—
While the music of his dirges,
On the hushed air wails and surges—
Down the avenues of lengthened gloom,
And on to where the midnight torches
Flare on crowded piers and porches,
On from town to town, from state to state,
Where mourning populations wait
Hour by hour, and day by day, to show
All that stricken love can now bestow—
Bear him, our great American, to rest,
Within the bosom of the giant West!
But let the fortress from its brazen lips
Shout to the shuddering ships,
That the greatly good die not in vain,
For treason's star is sunk in black eclipse,
Never to rise again!
O great Backwoodsman, Statesman, President!
If this our loud lament
Can reach the glorious station where thou art—
Take to thine own great heart
The homage and the gratitude we owe!
We never knew we loved thee so,
Till thou didst vanish at the Shining Gate,
Leaving us desolate!
Ah me, the slow revolving years
Shall come again, and go,
And stars and seasons circle in their spheres,
Perennial as our woe!
Ashes to ashes! but his name
Shall live in music on the lips of Fame;
And year by year shall patriots come,
With Youth and tottering Age, to kneel
As pilgrims by that hallowed tomb,
And weeping silently shall feel
His grandest monument to be
The praises of the just, the reverence of the Free!
The mournful tidings to the air—
The tale of horror and despair,
From many a belfry's iron tongue.
I saw the flag he loved so well,
Sad with the crapes of woe,
Droop heavily and low,
From dome and mast and citadel,—
The quivering lip, and half-suspended breath
Of him who listened to the tale of death,
As friend to friend rehearsed
That crime without a name, abhorred! accurst!
And those last hours when slowly ebbed away—
As mute and motionless he lay,
The life of him who since the world began,
Best earned the title of an honest man!
To-day the solemn pageant goes,
That bears him to his last repose,
As if some midnight cloud had past
Athwart the noonday sun, and sent
Its sudden shadow, black and vast,
Across the frightened continent—
To-day from forge, and mart, and mill,
All sound and sign of commerce flits;
And in a thousand rooms,
Among the idle looms,
Lone Silence like a widow sits,
And many-fingered Industry is still!
O L INCOLN , kind and just!
O steadfast to thy trust,
To keep from death the hope of Liberty!
Savior of the Republic! long for thee
Shall countless freemen mourn, and hold thy name
Revered, beloved, a legacy of Fame!
Hark! while a Nation's bells are tolled,
Swinging sonorous,
In iron chorus,
For a People's sorrow uncontrolled!
Ring! until the mighty knell is rolled,
In long reverberations manifold,
O'er prairies wild and savage seas,
From cliff to cliff, from breeze to breeze,
Till the last sentry on the far frontier,
Shall pause upon his lonely beat to hear
The trackless forests to the thunder shiver,
Of Freedom's echoes, sounding on forever!
Mourn, generous Nation! mourn for him whose word
Seemed sometimes quaintly wise and mild—
The artless language of a child,
Yet sometimes like an Angel's of the Lord!
Mourn for the ruler whose sublime decree,
Tremendous as a thunder-stroke
Of righteous retribution, broke
Those cruel chains, our curse and long disgrace,
That bound to hopeless toil a weaker race,
And made it “Henceforth and forever free!”
Mourn for the Pilot, whose sagacious eye
Could on the lurid verge descry
Rebellion's threatening star—
Blood-red, and ominous of war:
And who at last when Treason's storm of hate
Broke o'er the Ship of State,
Sprang to the helm, and with a giant's arm,
Held her amid the whirlpools and the shocks
Of maddened surges and of hidden rocks,
Till he beheld the angry tumult cease,
And brought her without harm,
Into a port of peace,
Across those perilous seas,
With all her colors flying in the breeze!
Let the great bells of sorrow toll,
And the drums in muffled thunder roll,
For Freedom's martyr, peace unto his soul!
Let the sable car roll on—
Slowly toward the setting sun,
Nobly hath he wrought and won,
And on earth his work is done!
While the funeral trumpets blow,
And populous cities overflow
With vast fraternities of woe—
Bear him on while thousands weep,
To his long and lasting sleep.
From the highest seat on earth,
To the quiet valley of his birth,
Bring him tenderly, that here
The hand of the awakening Year,
May strew her earliest blossoms on the dust
Of the wise, the good, the just!
With trailing banner and with sable plume—
While the music of his dirges,
On the hushed air wails and surges—
Down the avenues of lengthened gloom,
And on to where the midnight torches
Flare on crowded piers and porches,
On from town to town, from state to state,
Where mourning populations wait
Hour by hour, and day by day, to show
All that stricken love can now bestow—
Bear him, our great American, to rest,
Within the bosom of the giant West!
But let the fortress from its brazen lips
Shout to the shuddering ships,
That the greatly good die not in vain,
For treason's star is sunk in black eclipse,
Never to rise again!
O great Backwoodsman, Statesman, President!
If this our loud lament
Can reach the glorious station where thou art—
Take to thine own great heart
The homage and the gratitude we owe!
We never knew we loved thee so,
Till thou didst vanish at the Shining Gate,
Leaving us desolate!
Ah me, the slow revolving years
Shall come again, and go,
And stars and seasons circle in their spheres,
Perennial as our woe!
Ashes to ashes! but his name
Shall live in music on the lips of Fame;
And year by year shall patriots come,
With Youth and tottering Age, to kneel
As pilgrims by that hallowed tomb,
And weeping silently shall feel
His grandest monument to be
The praises of the just, the reverence of the Free!
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