Thou, Lincoln, sad martyr, just, generous, brave;
A hero of heroes Omnipotence gave
To mortals in molding thy gaunt, rugged face;
Like Cromwell, no smooth dilettante in grace;
But counting all power, glory, life itself, naught,
Till the duty assigned thee by Heaven was wrought.
O voice of humanity whose exquisite tone
Like the moan of the sea breathed a sadness its own—
As the sea mourns the infinite dead ’neath its waves,
So mourned his great soul for war’s infinite graves—
How oft did the widow and orphan rejoice
In the counsel and sympathy toned in that voice;
Where sorrow abounded did his love more abound,
Like the hand of a woman who nurses a wound,
Like the lullaby sung to a babe at the breast
Till singer and sufferer sink to sweet rest;
It cheered the bruised hearts of the children of toil
Like the summer-night-dew which refreshes the soil;
Like the Lamb of Redemption he went to the cross
And our infinite gain was secured by his loss.
No vision of conquest could lead him astray
No sectional bias waved false lights in his way.
Stem duty, as he saw it, confronted his eyes;
And the future passed judgment at its solemn assize:
“The Union which Washington won by his sword
“I have sworn to preserve, ’tis my vow to the Lord.
“Should the temple he built by my treachery burn,
“My name would all ages indignantly spurn,
“My honor be scorned, my oath be forsworn,
“And my name from the roster of Patriots be torn.
“This Union so fair asunder to rend,
“No patriot has sworn—I’ve an oath to defend,
“‘The Last Sigh of the Moor’ is a voice not in vain,
“For the mother who bore him scorned Boabdil of Spain.”
The ages have brought forth no kinder than he
His soul, like the broad, irresistible sea,
Was a blending of majesty, sweetness and grace,
Himself he forgot in his love for his race.
The truths which he uttered all time will applaud,
For his lips caught their flame from the altar of God.
Who can love in this life, and yet truly be wise?
Who can hate, and still see with unprejudiced eyes?
Our passions envelop our visions with mist;
Their whirlwinds transport us wherever they list.
To tenderly love and judge all hearts aright
Belongs to One only—the Father of Light,
Who sits on the throne with white radiance burning—
In whom is no variableness nor shadow of turning.
Fallen, fallen, is the storm-shattered oak of the South;
Fallen, fallen, is the strong, stately pine of the North;
One combatant loses, another one wins—
God have mercy on both and forgive them their sins.
And if a man conquer, or if he should lose,
’Tis naught if the Great Judge His mercy refuse.
And now, all unheeding earth’s praises or blame,
Thy two sons, Kentucky, repose in their fame.
The victor struck down while the jubilant cheer
Of honor and victory rang in his ear;
The vanquished, who suffered in silence his lot,
When the empire and glory he dreamed of were not.
New Orleans and Springfield have taken to rest
Two children, Kentucky, who nursed at thy breast.
Oh, Hardin and Christian, the homes of the great,
Forgetfulness veils, through the satire of fate,
While fame blazons far to the ends of the earth
The log huts which gave to your progeny birth.
The leaders of millions lie helpless and lone
As the soldiers who perished unnoticed, unknown.
Take them tenderly, dear Mother Earth, to thy breast,
To sleep in their “windowless palace of rest.”
I hear, as I stand, pressed with grief, by your graves,
A murmur, soft, strong, as of waves upon waves;
And memory’s harp, with its mystical strings,
Recalls, with the sweeping of infinite wings,
How precious that flag by our fathers unfurled—
White flower of charity, light of the world,
Float ever, proud banner of freedom sublime,
Till the judgment’s last trump sounds the ending of time.
The Christmas Eve bells were all ringing aloud,
When I dreamed that I saw on God’s bow in the cloud—
Its red like the rose dawn of Easter’s bright day;
Its blue like the love that abideth for aye;
Its gold the reflection of Paradise street;
Its white the effulgence of God’s mercy seat—
An Angel, calm, radiant, of presence august,
The great, golden balance of mercy adjust;
And millions of martyrs on battlefields slain,
Like the voice of the ocean, repeated the strain: