Well might the Nation bow in grief,
And weep above the fallen chief,
Who ever strove, by word or pen,
For “peace on earth, good-will to men.”
The people loved him, for they knew,
Each pulse of his large heart was true
To them, to Freedom, and the right,
Unswayed by gain, unawed by might.
This tomb, by loving hands up-piled,
To him, the merciful and mild,
From age to age shall carry down
The glory of his great renown.
As the long centuries onward flow,
As generations come and go,
Wide and more wide his fame shall spread,
And greener laurels crown his head.
And when this pile is fall’n to dust,
Its bronzes crumbled into rust,
Thy name, O Lincoln! still shall be
Revered and loved from sea to sea.
India’s swart millions, ’neath their palms,
Shall sing thy praise in grateful psalms,
And crowds by Congo’s turbid wave
Bless the good hand that freed the slave.
Shine on, O Star of Freedom, shine,
Till all the realms of earth are thine;
And all the tribes, through countless days,
Shall bask in thy benignant rays.
Lord of the Nations! grant us still
Another patriot sage, to fill
The seat of power, and save the State
From selfish greed. For this we wait.