VI.
Here!
At the city gates!
And the long procession waits
To bear him to his bier.
No sound of muffled drums
Tells that a hero comes;
No volleying cannon roll
The loss of a leader’s soul;
Not with the aid of these
Had he won his victories;
He never loved such voice;—
Let not these be our choice
To give this pain relief;
For the people’s hearts are mute
With the passion of their grief.
Break not upon his peace
With Massachusetts guns!
Only a tolling bell
To the sorrowing state shall tell
That the noblest of her sons,—
Highest in the world’s repute,
Lowliest in the toil he gave,—
Given of God this swift release,
Comes at last from her to crave
For the service that he gave
The guerdon of a grave!