| Above Judea's purple-mantled plain, There hovers still, among the ruins lone, The spirit of the Christ whose dying moan Was heard in heaven, and paid our debt in pain. As subtle perfume lingers with the rose, Even when its petals flutter to the earth, So clings the potent mystery of the birth Of that deep love from which all mercy flows. . . . . Within this house,—this room,—a martyr died, A prophet of a larger liberty,— A liberator setting bondmen free, A full-orbed MAN, above mere mortal pride. [top] The cloud-rifts opening to celestial glades, Oft glimpse him, and his spirit lingers still, As Christ's sweet influence broods upon the hill Where the red lily with the sunset fades. . . . . A little girl with eyes of heavenly blue, Sings through the old place, ignorant of all; Her angel face, her cheerful, birdlike call Thrilling the heart to life more full, more true. |
[IN TOKEN OF RESPECT]
Translation from Latin verses
| From humble parentage and low degree Lincoln ascended to the highest rank; None ever had a harder task than he, It was perfected—him alone we thank. Did the assassin think to kill a name, Or hand his own down to posterity? One will wear the laurel wreath of fame, The other be condemned to infamy. Caesar was killed by Brutus, Yet Rome did not cease to be; Lincoln by Booth, and yet the slaves In all America are free! Rieti, France, May, 1865 |
[ENGLAND'S SORROW]
From London Fun
| The hand of an Assassin, glowing red, Shot like a firebrand through the western sky; And stalwart Abraham Lincoln now is dead! O! felon heart that thus could basely dye The name of southerner with murderous gore! Could such a spirit come from mortal womb? And what possessed it that not heretofore It linked its coward mission with the tomb? Lincoln! thy fame shall sound through many an age, To prove that genius lives in humble birth; Thy name shall sound upon historic page, For 'midst thy faults we all esteemed thy worth. Gone art thou now! no more 'midst angry heat Shall thy calm spirit rule the surging tide, Which rolls where two contending nations meet, To still the passion and to curb the pride. Nations have looked and seen the fate of kings, Protectors, emperors, and such like men; Behold the man whose dirge all Europe sings, Now past the eulogy of mortal pen! He, like a lighthouse, fell athwart the strand; Let curses rest upon the assassin's hand. |