Of unspent sorrow, still we gaze and weep;
Still in our grief we backward gaze and weep—
Still tremble in our fear,
And shudder o’er fresh phantoms as we sleep.
And still we look
Forth to the future with a nameless dread—
Still the dark problem fills our path with dread;
Time’s yet unwritten book
Hangs ponderous and fearful o’er our head.
Our leader slain;