The curtain falls; but hushed, as if afraid,
The people wait, tear-stained, with heaving breast;
'Twill rise again, they know, when he is laid
With Freedom, in the Capitol, at rest.
Once more they see him, in his coffin there,
As Lincoln lay in blood-stained martyr sleep;
The stars and stripes across his honored bier,
While Freedom and Columbia o'er him weep.
REJOICE.
BY JOAQUIN MILLER.
"Bear me out of the battle, for lo! I am sorely wounded."
I.
From out my deep, wide-bosomed West,
Where unnamed heroes hew the way
For worlds to follow, with stern zest,—
Where gnarled old maples make array,
Deep-scarred from red men gone to rest,—
Where pipes the quail, where squirrels play
Through tossing trees, with nuts for toy,—
A boy steps forth, clear-eyed and tall,
A bashful boy, a soulful boy,
Yet comely as the sons of Saul,—
A boy, all friendless, poor, unknown,
Yet heir-apparent to a throne.
II.
Lo! Freedom's bleeding sacrifice!
So like some tall oak tempest-blown
Beside the storied stream he lies
Now at the last, pale-browed and prone.
A nation kneels with streaming eyes,
A nation supplicates the throne,
A nation holds him by the hand,
A nation sobs aloud at this:
The only dry eyes in the land
Now at the last, I think, are his.
Why, we should pray, God knoweth best,
That this grand, patient soul should rest.