And in all our pride to-day
We think, with a tender pain,
Of those so far away,
They will not come home again.
And our boys had fondly thought,
To-day, in marching by,
From the ground so dearly bought,
And the fields so bravely fought,
To have met their Father's eye.
But they may not see him in place,
Nor their ranks be seen of him;
We look for the well-known face,
And the splendor is strangely dim.
Perished?—who was it said
Our Leader had passed away?
Dead? Our President dead?—
He has not died for a day!
We mourn for a little breath,
Such as, late or soon, dust yields;
But the Dark Flower of Death
Blooms in the fadeless fields.
We looked on a cold, still brow:
But Lincoln could yet survive;
He never was more alive,
Never nearer than now.
For the pleasant season found him,
Guarded by faithful hands,
In the fairest of Summer Lands:
With his own brave Staff around him,
There our President stands.
There they are all at his side,
The noble hearts and true,
That did all men might do,—
Then slept, with their swords, and died.
Of little the storm has reft us
But the brave and kindly clay
('Tis but dust where Lander left us,
And but turf where Lyon lay).
There's Winthrop, true to the end,
And Ellsworth of long ago,
(First fair young head laid low!)
There 's Baker, the brave old friend,
And Douglas, the friendly foe: