The National tribune., 1900-08-23


Murder stood by the way
Treason struck home his fang.
One throb, and without pang
That pure soul passed away.
Kindly Spiritl-Ah, when did treason
Bid such a generous nature cease,
Mild by temper and strong by reason,
But ever leaning to love and peace?
A head how sober! heart how spacious!
A manner equal with high or low;
Rough. but gentle; uncouth, but gracious;
And still inclining TO lips OF woe.
Patient when saddest. calm when sternest,
Grieved when rigid for Justices sake;
Given TO jest, yet ever i'll earnest
If aught of right or truth were at stake.
Simple of heart, yet shrewd Herewith;
Slow TO resolve, but firm to hold;
Still with parable and with myth
Seasoning truth like Them of old;
Aptest humor and quaintest pith!
(Still we smile DER the tales he told.)
Yet whose might pierce the guise
OF mirth in the man we mourn
Would mark, and with grieved surprise,
All the great soul had borne,
In the piteous lines, and the kind sad eyes,
60 dreadfully wearied and worn.
The Lands great lamentations,
The mighty mourning of cannon.
The myriad flags half-mast-
The late remorse Of the nations,
Grief from Volga to Shannonl
(Now they know thee at last.)
How, from gray Niagara's shore
To CanaVeral's surfy shoal,-
From the rough Atlantic roar
To the long Pacific roll,-
For bereavement and for dole,
Every cottage wears its weed,
White as thine own pure soul,
And black as the traitor deed!
How, under a Nations pail.
The dust so dear in our sight
To its home on the prairie passed.
The leagues of funeral,
The myriads morn and night,
Pressing TO look their last!
Not alone the States Eclipse;
But how tears in hard eyes gather
And on rough and bearded lips
Of the regiments and the ships
"Oh, our dear Father!"
And methinks of all the million
That looked on the dark dead face,
Meath its sable plumed pavilion,
The crone of a humber race
Is saddest of all TO think on,
And the old swart lips that said,
Sobbing, abraham Lincolnl
Oh, he is dead, he is head"
Perished?-who was il said
Our Leader had passed away?
Dead? Our President dead?-
He has not died for dayi
We mourn for little breath,
Such as, late or soon, dust yields;
But the Dark Flower Of death
Blooms in the fadeleSs fields,
We looked on a cold, still brow;
But Lincoln could yet survive;
He never was more alive,
Never nearer than now.
For the pleasant season found him,
Guarded by faithful hands,
In the fairest Of Summer Lands:
With his own brave staff around him,
There our President stands
There they are all at his side,
The noble hearts and true,
That did all men might do
Then slept, with their swords, and died.
Gathered home from the grave,
Risen from sun and rain,
Rescued from wind and wave,
Out OF the stormy main,-
The Legions of our Brave
Are all in their lines againi
a tenderer green than Nav
The Eternal Season wears
The blue of our Summers day
s thin and pallid 10 theirs
The Horror faded away,
And twas heaven all unawaresI
Tents on the Infinite Shore,
Flags in the azuline sky,
Sails on the seas once morei
To-day in the heaven on high.
All under arms once morei
The troops are all in their lines,
The guidons fiutter and play:
But every bayonet shines,
For all must march to-day.
What lofty pennons flaunt?
What might echoes haunt
AS Of great guns, Ger the main?
Hark TO the sound again!
The Congress is all-atauntl
Ihe Cumberiand's manned againi z
All the ships and their men
Are in line Of battle to-day
All at quarters, as when
Their last roll thundered away
All at their guns, as then,
For the Fleet salutes to-day.
The armies have broken camp
On the vast and sunny plain,
The drums are rolling again;
With steady, measured tramp,
They're marching all again.
With alignment firm and solemn
Once again they form
In mighty square and column
But never for charge and storm.
The Old Flag they died under
Floats above them on the shore.
And on the great ships yonder
The enSlgnS dip once more-
And once again the thunder
Of the thirty guns and four!
In solid platoons Of steel,
Under heavens triumphal aroh:
The long lines break and wheel:
And the word is, Forward, marchls
The colors ripple oerhead,
The drums roll up to the sky,
And with martial time and tread
The regiments all pass BY