No room for pride, no place for blame—
We fling our blossoms on the grave,
Pale, scentless, faded,—all we claim,
This only,—what we had we gave.
Ah, could the grief of all who mourn
Blend in one voice its bitter cry,
The wail to heaven's high arches borne
Would echo through the caverned sky.
II.
O happiest land whose peaceful choice
Fills with a breath its empty throne!
God, speaking through thy people's voice,
Has made that voice for once his own.
No angry passion shakes the State
Whose weary servant seeks for rest,—
And who could fear that scowling hate
Would strike at that unguarded breast?
He stands, unconscious of his doom,
In manly strength, erect, serene,—
Around him summer spreads her bloom:
He falls,—what horror clothes the scene!
How swift the sudden flash of woe
Where all was bright as childhood's dream!
As if from heaven's ethereal bow
Had leaped the lightning's arrowy gleam.
Blot the foul deed from history's page,—
Let not the all-betraying sun
Blush for the day that stains an age
When murder's blackest wreath was won.
III.
Pale on his couch the sufferer lies,
The weary battle-ground of pain;
Love tends his pillow, science tries
Her every art, alas! in vain.