Upon his pulseless form are richly piled
Wreaths, garlands, of the late yet lavish bloom
Of the perfected summer, with the exquisite thrill
Of life so fresh upon their shining leaves
Banners are furled around him, and the flag
We love droops mourning o'er the mourning land.
And from afar beyond our land and lakes,
From the great world that watched him wonderingly
Come kind farewells and tender sympathies.
Pity has told her tale in every tongue
And kings have claimed him comrade, hand in hand.
Fame has recorded him,
Love has rewarded him,
Mother, wife, children and people wept over him.
England accounted him
Kindred by blood.
All that are great and good
Have as his mourners stood
While he lay, day by day, passing away.
A Queen sends comforting words of cheer,
And flowers to fade on his bloody bier.
God save the Queen when her last hour is near!
The North was his by birth,
The South is his by death!
He conquered by suffering grandly borne
Our long-cherished strifes; they are gone, and now
Standing together we look on his pale dead face,
To whom we had given, the elected, a power more great
Than any king's. Together we revere
The majesty with which he laid it down
At God's command. Together we shall love
His memory, and each other for his sake,
And for the heart so high that it "could hate no man."
God rest him! He has rested him!
Nothing can "hurt" him more,
"Nothing can touch him further."
More than a king he lies
With the strong blaze of the world's homage
Full on his closed eyes.
American, born in the forest,
The great lake for him sighs,
And England, crowned and sceptered,
Loves him as he dies.
He fought in the deathly valley
From morn till the set of sun,
Till eighty days had run.
Then he folded his arms
And his day was done.
Oh, the bloom is off of the prairie,
The butterfly's change is begun,
The pine cone flowers eternal,
The eagle has soared to the sun!