And through trouble weary and long
Well hadst thou seen the way,
Leaving the State so strong
It did not reel for a day;
And even in death couldst give
A token for Freedom's strife,—
A proof how republics live,
And not by a single life,
But the Right Divine of man,
And the many, trained to be free,—
And none, since the world began,
Ever was mourned like thee.
Dost thou feel it, O noble Heart!
(So grieved and so wronged below,)
From the rest wherein thou art?
Do they see it, those patient eyes?
Is there heed in the happy skies
For tokens of world-wide woe?
The Land's great lamentations,
The mighty mourning of cannon,
The myriad flags half-mast,—
The late remorse of the nations,
Grief from Volga to Shannon!
(Now they know thee at last.)
How, from gray Niagara's shore
To Canaveral's surfy shoal,—
From the rough Atlantic roar
To the long Pacific roll,—
For bereavement and for dole,
Every cottage wears its weed,
White as thine own pure soul,
And black as the traitor deed!
How, under a nation's pall,
The dust so dear in our sight
To its home on the prairie passed,—
The leagues of funeral,
The myriads, morn and night,
Pressing to look their last!
Nor alone the State's Eclipse;
But how tears in hard eyes gather,—
And on rough and bearded lips,
Of the regiments and the ships,—
"Oh, our dear Father!"
And methinks of all the million
That looked on the dark dead face,
'Neath its sable-plumed pavilion,
The crone of a humbler race
Is saddest of all to think on,
And the old swart lips that said,
Sobbing, "Abraham Lincoln!
Oh, he is dead, he is dead!"
Hush! let our heavy souls
To-day be glad; for agen
The stormy music swells and rolls
Stirring the hearts of men.