Let the last solemn pageant move,
The nation's grief to consecrate
To him struck down by maniac hate
Amid a mighty nation's love;
And though the thought it solace gives,
Beside the martyr's grave to-day
We feel 'tis almost hard to say:
"God reigns and the Republic lives!"
Richard Handfield Titherington.
THE COMFORT OF THE TREES
Gentle and generous, brave-hearted, kind,
And full of love and trust was he, our chief;
He never harmed a soul! Oh, dull and blind
And cruel, the hand that smote, beyond belief!
Strike him? It could not be! Soon should we find
'Twas but a torturing dream—our sudden grief!
Then sobs and wailings down the northern wind
Like the wild voice of shipwreck from a reef!
By false hope lulled (his courage gave us hope!)
By day, by night we watched,—until unfurled
At last the word of fate!—Our memories
Cherish one tender thought in their sad scope:
He, looking from the window on this world,
Found comfort in the moving green of trees.
Richard Watson Gilder.
OUTWARD BOUND
Farewell! for now a stormy morn and dark
The hour of greeting and of parting brings;
Already on the rising wind yon bark
Spreads her impatient wings.
Too hasty keel, a little while delay!
A moment tarry, O thou hurrying dawn!
For long and sad will be the mourners' day
When their beloved is gone.
But vain the hands that beckon from the shore:
Alike our passion and our grief are vain.
Behind him lies our little world: before
The illimitable main.