O, slow to smite and swift to spare,
Gentle and merciful and just!
Who, in the fear of God, didst bear
The sword of power—a nation's trust.
In sorrow by thy bier we stand,
Amid the awe that hushes all,
And speak the anguish of a land
That shook with horror at thy fall.
Thy task is done—the bond are free;
We bear thee to an honored grave,
Whose noblest monument shall be
The broken fetters of the slave.
Pure was thy life; its bloody close
Hath placed thee with the sons of light,
Among the noble host of those
cause of right.
CROWN HIS BLOODSTAINED PILLOW
BY JULIA WARD HOWE
Crown his blood-stained pillow
With a victor's palm;
Life's receding billow
Leaves eternal calm.
At the feet Almighty
Lay this gift sincere;
Of a purpose weighty,
And a record clear.
With deliverance freighted
Was this passive hand,
And this heart, high-fated,
Would with love command.
Let him rest serenely
In a Nation's care,
Where her waters queenly
Make the West more fair.