[THE FUNERAL CAR OF LINCOLN]
| Peace! Let the long procession come, For, hark!—the mournful, muffled drum— The trumpet's wail afar— And, see! the awful car! Peace! let the sad procession go, While cannon boom, and bells toll slow: And go, thou sacred car, Bearing our Woe afar! Go, darkly borne, from State to State, Whose loyal, sorrowing cities wait To honor all they can The dust of that good man! Go, grandly borne, with such a train As greatest kings might die to gain; The Just, the Wise, the Brave Attend thee to the grave! And you the soldiers of our wars, Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars, Salute him once again, Your late Commander—slain! Yes, let your tears, indignant, fall, And leave your muskets on the wall; Your country needs you now Beside the forge, the plow! [top] (When Justice shall unsheathe her brand— If Mercy may not stay her hand, Nor would we have it so— She must direct the blow!) So, sweetly, sadly, sternly goes The Fallen to his last repose; Beneath no mighty dome, But in his modest Home! The churchyard where his children rest, The quiet spot that suits him best; There shall his grave be made, And there his bones be laid! And there his countrymen shall come, With memory proud, with pity dumb, And strangers far and near, For many and many a year! For many a year, and many an age, With History on her ample page The virtues shall enroll Of that Paternal Soul. |
William Cullen Bryant, born in Cummington, Massachusetts, November 3, 1794. Died in New York, June 12, 1878. He wrote verses in his twelfth year to be recited at school. Spent two years at Williams College and at the age of eighteen began the study of law. He depended upon his profession for a number of years, although it was not to his liking. His contributions to the North American Review and his poems published therein gained him an enviable reputation, and reflected great credit upon him.
[THE DEATH OF LINCOLN]
| Oh, 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 is 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 Who perished in the cause of right. |
CITY HALL, NEW YORK, N. Y.