Such thunderbolts, in other lands,
Have smitten the rod from royal hands,
But spared, with us, till now,
Each laurelled Cæsar's brow.
No Cæsar he whom we lament,
A Man without a precedent,
Sent, it would seem, to do
His work, and perish, too.
Not by the weary cares of State,
The endless tasks, which will not wait,
Which, often done in vain,
Must yet be done again:
Not in the dark, wild tide of war,
Which rose so high, and rolled so far,
Sweeping from sea to sea
In awful anarchy:
Four fateful years of mortal strife,
Which slowly drained the nation's life
(Yet for each drop that ran
There sprang an armèd man!).
Not then; but when, by measures meet
By victory, and by defeat,
By courage, patience, skill,
The people's fixed, "We will!"
Had pierced, had crushed Rebellion dead,
Without a hand, without a head,
At last, when all was well,
He fell, O how he fell!
The time, the place, the stealing shape,
The coward shot, the swift escape,
The wife, the widow's scream,—
It is a hideous Dream!
A dream? What means this pageant, then?
These multitudes of solemn men,
Who speak not when they meet,
But throng the silent street?
The flags half-mast that late so high
Flaunted at each new victory?
(The stars no brightness shed,
But bloody looks the red!)