Man's city; the ideal reign
Where every human right hath place;
Where blood, nor birth, nor priest again
Shall bind the weary race,—
In which no king but man shall be.
'Twas this that thrilled with loving pain
The heart of all the earth, as he
Died by the sobbing main.
For, mightiest ruler of the earth,
He was the mightiest, not because
Of priestly touch or blood, or birth.
But by a people's laws.
O Garfield! brave and patient soul!
Long as the tireless tides shall roll
About the Long Branch beaches, where
Thy life went out upon the air,
So long thy land, from sea to sea,
Will hold thy manhood's legacy.
There were two parties: there were those,
In thine own party, called thy foes;
There was a North; there was a South,
Ere blazed the assassin's pistol-mouth.
But lo! thy bed became a throne:
And as the hours went by, at length
The weakness of thine arm alone
Grew mightier than thy strongest strength.
No petulant murmur; no vexed cry
Of balked ambitions; but a high,
Grand patience! And thy whisper blent
In one heart all the continent.
To-day there are no factions left,
But one America bereft.
O Garfield! fortunate in death wast thou,
Though at the opening of a grand career!
Thou wast a meteor flashing on the brow
Of skies political, where oft appear,