A cry at midnight! and listening—
"Dead!" tolled out the bells of despair;
And millions of eyelids were glistening
As sobbed the sad tones on the air.
But who is he toward whom all eyes are turning.
And who is he for whom all hearts are yearning?
What is the threat at which earth holds its breath
While one lone man a duel fights with death?
No thrones are hanging in suspense;
No kingdoms totter to their fall.
Peace, with her gentle influence,
Is hovering over all.
'Tis just one man at Elberon,
Who waiteth day by day,
Whose patience all our hearts hath won
As ebbs his life away.
His birthday waked no cannon-boom;
No purple round him hung;
A backwoods cabin gave him room;
And storms his welcome sung.
He seized the sceptre of that king
Who treads a freehold sod;
He wore upon his brow that ring
That crowns a son of God.
By his own might he built a throne,
With no unhuman arts,
And by his manhood reigned alone
O'er fifty millions hearts.
Thus is humanity's long dream,
Its highest, holiest hope begun
To harden into fact, and gleam
A city 'neath the sun—
A city, not like that which came
In old-time vision from the skies;
But wrought by man through blood and flame,
From solid earth to rise,—