Perish?—who was it said
Our Leader had passed away?
Dead? Our President dead?
He has not died for a day!
We mourn for a little breath
Such as, late or soon, dust yields;
But the Dark Flower of Death
Blooms in the fadeless fields.
We looked on a cold, still brow,
But Lincoln could yet survive;
He never was more alive,
Never nearer than now.
For the pleasant season found him,
Guarded by faithful hands,
In the fairest of Summer Lands;
With his own brave Staff around him,
There our President stands.
There they are all at his side,
The noble hearts and true,
That did all men might do—
Then slept, with their swords and died.
And around—(for there can cease
This earthly trouble)—they throng,
The friends that have passed in peace,
The foes that have seen their wrong.
(But, a little from the rest,
With sad eyes looking down,
And brows of softened frown,
With stern arms on the chest,
Are two, standing abreast—
Stonewall and Old John Brown.)
But the stainless and the true,
These by their President stand,
To look on his last review,
Or march with the old command.
And lo! from a thousand fields,
From all the old battle-haunts,
A greater Army than Sherman wields,
A grander Review than Grant's!
Gathered home from the grave,
Risen from sun and rain—
Rescued from wind and wave
Out of the stormy main—
The Legions of our Brave
Are all in their lines again!