Life may be given in many ways,And loyalty to Truth be sealedAs bravely in the closet as the field,So generous is Fate;But then to stand beside her,When craven churls deride her,To front a lie in arms, and not to yield—This shows, methinks, God's planAnd measure of a stalwart man,Limbed, like the old heroic breeds,Who stands self-poised on manhood's solid earth,Not forced to frame excuses for his birth,Fed from within with all the strength he needs.Such was he, our Martyr Chief,Whom late the nation he had led,With ashes on her head,Wept with the passion of an angry grief:Forgive me, if from present things I turnTo speak what in my heart will beat and burn,And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn.Nature, they say, doth dote,And cannot make a manSave on some worn-out plan,Repeating us by rote:For him her Old-World moulds aside she threw,And, choosing sweet clay from the breastOf the unexhausted West,With stuff untainted shaped a hero new,Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true.How beautiful to seeOnce more a shepherd of mankind indeed,Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead;One whose meek flock the people joyed to be,Not lured by any cheat of birth,But by his clear-grained human worth,And brave old wisdom of sincerity!They knew that outward grace is dust;They could not choose but trustIn that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill,And supple-tempered willThat bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust.His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind,Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars,A seamark now, now lost in vapors blind,Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined,Fruitful and friendly for all human kind,Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of loftiest stars.Nothing of Europe here,Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still,Ere any names of serf and peerCould Nature's equal scheme deface;Here was a type of the true elder race,And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face.I praise him not; it were too late;And some innative weakness there must beIn him who condescends to victorySuch as the present gives, and cannot wait,Safe in himself as in a fate.So always firmly he;He knew to bide him time,And can his fame abide,Still patient in his simple faith sublime,Till the wise years decide.Great captains, with their guns and drums,Disturb our judgment for the hour,But at last silence comes:These are all gone, and, standing like a tower,Our children shall behold his fame,The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man,Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame,New birth of our new soil the first American.
Life may be given in many ways,And loyalty to Truth be sealedAs bravely in the closet as the field,So generous is Fate;But then to stand beside her,When craven churls deride her,To front a lie in arms, and not to yield—This shows, methinks, God's planAnd measure of a stalwart man,Limbed, like the old heroic breeds,Who stands self-poised on manhood's solid earth,Not forced to frame excuses for his birth,Fed from within with all the strength he needs.Such was he, our Martyr Chief,Whom late the nation he had led,With ashes on her head,Wept with the passion of an angry grief:Forgive me, if from present things I turnTo speak what in my heart will beat and burn,And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn.Nature, they say, doth dote,And cannot make a manSave on some worn-out plan,Repeating us by rote:For him her Old-World moulds aside she threw,And, choosing sweet clay from the breastOf the unexhausted West,With stuff untainted shaped a hero new,Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true.How beautiful to seeOnce more a shepherd of mankind indeed,Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead;One whose meek flock the people joyed to be,Not lured by any cheat of birth,But by his clear-grained human worth,And brave old wisdom of sincerity!They knew that outward grace is dust;They could not choose but trustIn that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill,And supple-tempered willThat bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust.His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind,Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars,A seamark now, now lost in vapors blind,Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined,Fruitful and friendly for all human kind,Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of loftiest stars.Nothing of Europe here,Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still,Ere any names of serf and peerCould Nature's equal scheme deface;Here was a type of the true elder race,And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face.I praise him not; it were too late;And some innative weakness there must beIn him who condescends to victorySuch as the present gives, and cannot wait,Safe in himself as in a fate.So always firmly he;He knew to bide him time,And can his fame abide,Still patient in his simple faith sublime,Till the wise years decide.Great captains, with their guns and drums,Disturb our judgment for the hour,But at last silence comes:These are all gone, and, standing like a tower,Our children shall behold his fame,The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man,Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame,New birth of our new soil the first American.
[17]By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Company.
[17]By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Company.
Remarks at the funeral services held in Concord, April 19, 1865
BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON
We meet under the gloom of a calamity which darkens down over the minds of good men in all civil society, as the fearful tidings travel over sea,over land, from country to country, like the shadow of an uncalculated eclipse over the planet. Old as history is, and manifold as are its tragedies, I doubt if any death has caused so much pain to mankind as this has caused, or will cause, on its announcement; and this, not so much because nations are by modern arts brought so closely together, as because of the mysterious hopes and fears which, in the present day, are connected with the name and institutions of America.
In this country, on Saturday, every one was struck dumb, and saw at first only deep below deep, as he meditated on the ghastly blow. And perhaps, at this hour, when the coffin which contains the dust of the President sets forward on its long march through mourning States, on its way to his home in Illinois, we might well be silent and suffer the awful voices of the time to thunder to us. Yes, but that first despair was brief: the man was not so to be mourned. He was the most active and hopeful of men; and his work has not perished: but acclamations of praise for the task he has accomplished burst out into a song of triumph, which even tears for his death cannot keep down.
The President stood before us as a man of the people. He was thoroughly American, had never crossed the sea, had never been spoiled by English insularity or French dissipation; a quiet native, aboriginal man, as an acorn from the oak; no aping of foreigners, no frivolous accomplishments, Kentuckian born, working on a farm, a flatboat-man, acaptain in the Black Hawk war, a country lawyer, a representative in the rural legislature of Illinois;—on such modest foundations the broad structure of his fame was laid. How slowly, and yet by happily prepared steps, he came to his place. All of us remember—it is only a history of five or six years—the surprise and the disappointment of the country at his first nomination by the convention at Chicago. Mr. Seward, then in the culmination of his good fame, was the favorite of the Eastern States. And when the new and comparatively unknown name of Lincoln was announced (notwithstanding the report of the acclamations of that convention), we heard the result coldly and sadly. It seemed too rash, on a purely local reputation, to build so grave a trust in such anxious times; and men naturally talked of the chances in politics as incalculable. But it turned out not to be chance. The profound good opinion which the people of Illinois and of the West had conceived of him, and which they had imparted to their colleagues, that they also might justify themselves to their constituents at home, was not rash, though they did not begin to know the riches of his worth.
A plain man of the people, an extraordinary fortune attended him. He offered no shining qualities at the first encounter; he did not offend by superiority. He had a face and manner which disarmed suspicion, which inspired confidence, which confirmed good will. He was a man without vices. He had a strong sense of duty, which it was very easy for him to obey. Then he had what farmerscall a long head; was excellent in working out the sum for himself; in arguing his case and convincing you fairly and firmly. Then it turned out that he was a great worker; had prodigious faculty of performance; worked easily. A good worker is so rare; everybody has some disabling quality. In a host of young men that start together and promise so many brilliant leaders for the next age, each fails on trial; one by bad health, one by conceit, or by love of pleasure, or lethargy, or an ugly temper,—each has some disqualifying fault that throws him out of the career. But this man was sound to the core, cheerful, persistent, all right for labor, and liked nothing so well.
Then he had a vast good nature, which made him tolerant and accessible to all; fair minded, leaning to the claim of the petitioner; affable, and not sensible to the affliction which the innumerable visits paid to him when President would have brought to any one else. And how this good nature became a noble humanity, in many a tragic case which the events of the war brought to him, every one will remember; and with what increasing tenderness he dealt when a whole race was thrown on his compassion. The poor negro said of him, on an impressive occasion, "Massa Linkum am ebery-where." Then his broad good humor, running easily into jocular talk, in which he delighted and in which he excelled, was a rich gift to this wise man. It enabled him to keep his secret; to meet every kind of man and every rank in society; to take off the edgeof the severest decisions; to mask his own purpose and sound his companion; and to catch with true instinct the temper of every company he addressed. And, more than all, it is to a man of severe labor, in anxious and exhausting crises, the natural restorative, good as sleep, and is the protection of the overdriven brain against rancor and insanity.
He is the author of a multitude of good sayings, so disguised as pleasantries that it is certain they had no reputation at first but as jests; and only later, by the very acceptance and adoption they find in the mouths of millions, turn out to be the wisdom of the hour. I am sure if this man had ruled in a period of less facility of printing, he would have become mythological in a very few years, like Æsop or Pilpay, or one of the Seven Wise Masters, by his fables and proverbs. But the weight and penetration of many passages in his letters, messages, and speeches, hidden now by the very closeness of their application to the moment, are destined hereafter to wide fame. What pregnant definitions; what unerring common sense; what foresight; and, on great occasion, what lofty, and more than national, what humane tone! His brief speech at Gettysburg will not easily be surpassed by words on any recorded occasion. This, and one other American speech, that of John Brown to the court that tried him, and a part of Kossuth's speech at Birmingham, can only be compared with each other, and with no fourth.
His occupying the chair of State was a triumph of the good sense of mankind, and of the publicconscience. This middle-class country had got a middle-class President, at last. Yes, in manners and sympathies, but not in powers, for his powers were superior. This man grew according to the need. His mind mastered the problem of the day; and as the problem grew, so did his comprehension of it. Rarely was man so fitted to the event. In the midst of fears and jealousies, in the Babel of counsels and parties, this man wrought incessantly with all his might and all his honesty, laboring to find what the people wanted, and how to obtain that. It cannot be said there is any exaggeration of his worth. If ever a man was fairly tested, he was. There was no lack of resistance, nor of slander, nor of ridicule. The times have allowed no state secrets; the nation has been in such ferment, such multitudes had to be trusted, that no secret could be kept. Every door was ajar, and we know all that befell.
Then, what an occasion was the whirlwind of the war. Here was place for no holiday magistrate, no fair-weather sailor; the new pilot was hurried to the helm in a tornado. In four years,—four years of battle-days,—his endurance, his fertility of resources, his magnanimity, were sorely tried and never found wanting. There, by his courage, his justice, his even temper, his fertile counsel, his humanity, he stood a heroic figure in the centre of a heroic epoch. He is the true history of the American people in his time. Step by step he walked before them; slow with their slowness, quickening his march by theirs, the true representative of this continent; an entirely public man; father of his country, the pulse of twenty-millions throbbing in his heart, the thought of their minds articulated by his tongue.
Adam Smith remarks that the axe, which in Houbraken's portraits of British kings and worthies is engraved under those who have suffered at the block, adds a certain lofty charm to the picture. And who does not see, even in this tragedy so recent, how fast the terror and ruin of the massacre are already burning into glory around the victim? Far happier this fate than to have lived to be wished away; to have watched the decay of his own faculties; to have seen—perhaps even be—the proverbial ingratitude of statesmen; to have seen mean men preferred. Had he not lived long enough to keep the greatest promise that ever man made to his fellow men,—the practicable abolition of slavery? He had seen Tennessee, Missouri, and Maryland emancipate their slaves. He had seen Savannah, Charleston, and Richmond surrendered; had seen the main army of the rebellion lay down its arms. He had conquered the public opinion of Canada, England, and France. Only Washington can compare with him in fortune.
And what if it should turn out, in the unfolding of the web, that he had reached the term; that this heroic deliverer could no longer serve us; that the rebellion had touched its natural conclusion, and what remained to be done required new and uncommitted hands,—a new spirit born out of the ashes of the war; and that Heaven, wishing to show theworld a completed benefactor, shall make him serve his country even more by his death than by his life? Nations, like kings, are not good by facility and complaisance. "The kindness of kings consists in justice and strength." Easy good nature has been the dangerous foible of the Republic, and it was necessary that its enemies should outrage it, and drive us to unwonted firmness, to secure the salvation of this country in the next ages.
The ancients believed in a serene and beautiful Genius which ruled in the affairs of nations; which, with a slow but stern justice, carried forward the fortunes of certain chosen houses, weeding out single offenders or offending families, and securing at last the firm prosperity of the favorites of Heaven. It was too narrow a view of the Eternal Nemesis. There is a serene Providence which rules the fate of nations, which makes little account of time, little of one generation or race, makes no account of disasters, conquers alike by what is called defeat or by what is called victory, thrusts aside enemy and obstruction, crushes everything immoral as inhuman, and obtains the ultimate triumph of the best race by the sacrifice of everything which resists the moral laws of the world. It makes its own instruments, creates the man for the time, trains him in poverty, inspires his genius, and arms him for his task. It has given every race its own talent, and ordains that only that race which combines perfectly with the virtues of all shall endure.
[18]By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Company.
[18]By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Company.
BY WILLIAM MCKINLEY
The greatest names in American history are Washington and Lincoln. One is forever associated with the independence of the States and the formation of the Federal Union; the other with universal freedom and the preservation of the Union.
Washington enforced the Declaration of Independence as against England. Lincoln proclaimed the fulfilment not only to a down-trodden race in America, but to all people for all time who may seek the protection of our flag. These illustrious men achieved grander results for mankind within a single century than any other men ever accomplished in all the years since the first flight of time began.
Washington drew his sword not for a change of rulers upon an established throne, but to establish a new government which should acknowledge no throne but the tribute of the people.
Lincoln accepted war to save the Union, the safeguard of our liberties, and re-established it on indestructible foundations as forever "one and indivisible." To quote his own words: "Now we are contending that this nation under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth."
BY THEODORE ROOSEVELT
Abraham Lincoln—the spirit incarnate of those who won victory in the Civil War—was the true representative of this people, not only for his own generation, but for all time, because he was a man among men. A man who embodied the qualities of his fellow-men, but who embodied them to the highest and most unusual degree of perfection, who embodied all that there was in the nation of courage, of wisdom, of gentle, patient kindliness, and of common sense.
BY MAURICE THOMPSON
May one who fought in honor for the SouthUncovered stand and sing by Lincoln's grave?Why, if I shrunk not at the cannon's mouth,Nor swerved one inch for any battle-wave,Should I now tremble in this quiet closeHearing the prairie wind go lightly byFrom billowy plains of grass and miles of corn,While out of deep reposeThe great sweet spirit lifts itself on highAnd broods above our land this summer morn?Meseems I feel his presence. Is he dead?Death is a word. He lives and grander grows.At Gettysburg he bows his bleeding head;He spreads his arms where Chickamauga flows,As if to clasp old soldiers to his breast,Of South or North no matter which they be,Not thinking of what uniform they wore,His heart a palimpsest,Record on record of humanity,Where love is first and last forevermore.He was the Southern mother leaning forth,At dead of night to hear the cannon roar,Beseeching God to turn the cruel NorthAnd break it that her son might come once more;He was New England's maiden pale and pure,Whose gallant lover fell on Shiloh's plain;He was the mangled body of the dead;He writhing did endureWounds and disfigurement and racking pain,Gangrene and amputation, all things dread.He was the North, the South, the East, the West,The thrall, the master, all of us in one;There was no section that he held the best;His love shone as impartial as the sun;And so revenge appealed to him in vain;He smiled at it, as at a thing forlorn,And gently put it from him, rose and stoodA moment's space in pain,Remembering the prairies and the cornAnd the glad voices of the field and wood.And then when Peace set wing upon the windAnd northward flying fanned the clouds away,He passed as martyrs pass. Ah, who shall findThe chord to sound the pathos of that day!Mid-April blowing sweet across the land,New bloom of freedom opening to the world,Loud pæans of the homeward-looking host,The salutations grandFrom grimy guns, the tattered flags unfurled;And he must sleep to all the glory lost!Sleep! loss! But there is neither sleep nor loss,And all the glory mantles him about;Above his breast the precious banners cross,Does he not hear his armies tramp and shout?Oh, every kiss of mother, wife or maidDashed on the grizzly lip of veteran,Comes forthright to that calm and quiet mouth,And will not be delayed,And every slave, no longer slave but man,Sends up a blessing from the broken South.He is not dead, France knows he is not dead;He stirs strong hearts in Spain and Germany,In far Siberian mines his words are said,He tells the English Ireland shall be free,He calls poor serfs about him in the night,And whispers of a power that laughs at kings,And of a force that breaks the strongest chain;Old tyranny feels his mightTearing away its deepest fastenings,And jewelled sceptres threaten him in vain.Years pass away, but freedom does not pass,Thrones crumble, but man's birthright crumbles not,And, like the wind across the prairie grass,A whole world's aspirations fan this spotWith ceaseless panting after liberty,One breath of which would make dark Russia fair,And blow sweet summer through the exile's caveAnd set the exile free;For which I pray, here in the open airOf Freedom's morning-tide, by Lincoln's grave.
May one who fought in honor for the SouthUncovered stand and sing by Lincoln's grave?Why, if I shrunk not at the cannon's mouth,Nor swerved one inch for any battle-wave,Should I now tremble in this quiet closeHearing the prairie wind go lightly byFrom billowy plains of grass and miles of corn,While out of deep reposeThe great sweet spirit lifts itself on highAnd broods above our land this summer morn?
Meseems I feel his presence. Is he dead?Death is a word. He lives and grander grows.At Gettysburg he bows his bleeding head;He spreads his arms where Chickamauga flows,As if to clasp old soldiers to his breast,Of South or North no matter which they be,Not thinking of what uniform they wore,His heart a palimpsest,Record on record of humanity,Where love is first and last forevermore.
He was the Southern mother leaning forth,At dead of night to hear the cannon roar,Beseeching God to turn the cruel NorthAnd break it that her son might come once more;He was New England's maiden pale and pure,Whose gallant lover fell on Shiloh's plain;He was the mangled body of the dead;He writhing did endureWounds and disfigurement and racking pain,Gangrene and amputation, all things dread.
He was the North, the South, the East, the West,The thrall, the master, all of us in one;There was no section that he held the best;His love shone as impartial as the sun;And so revenge appealed to him in vain;He smiled at it, as at a thing forlorn,And gently put it from him, rose and stoodA moment's space in pain,Remembering the prairies and the cornAnd the glad voices of the field and wood.
And then when Peace set wing upon the windAnd northward flying fanned the clouds away,He passed as martyrs pass. Ah, who shall findThe chord to sound the pathos of that day!Mid-April blowing sweet across the land,New bloom of freedom opening to the world,Loud pæans of the homeward-looking host,The salutations grandFrom grimy guns, the tattered flags unfurled;And he must sleep to all the glory lost!
Sleep! loss! But there is neither sleep nor loss,And all the glory mantles him about;Above his breast the precious banners cross,Does he not hear his armies tramp and shout?Oh, every kiss of mother, wife or maidDashed on the grizzly lip of veteran,Comes forthright to that calm and quiet mouth,And will not be delayed,And every slave, no longer slave but man,Sends up a blessing from the broken South.
He is not dead, France knows he is not dead;He stirs strong hearts in Spain and Germany,In far Siberian mines his words are said,He tells the English Ireland shall be free,He calls poor serfs about him in the night,And whispers of a power that laughs at kings,And of a force that breaks the strongest chain;Old tyranny feels his mightTearing away its deepest fastenings,And jewelled sceptres threaten him in vain.
Years pass away, but freedom does not pass,Thrones crumble, but man's birthright crumbles not,And, like the wind across the prairie grass,A whole world's aspirations fan this spotWith ceaseless panting after liberty,One breath of which would make dark Russia fair,And blow sweet summer through the exile's caveAnd set the exile free;For which I pray, here in the open airOf Freedom's morning-tide, by Lincoln's grave.
A man of great ability, pure patriotism, unselfish nature, full of forgiveness to his enemies, bearing malice toward none, he proved to be the man above all others for the struggle through which the nation had to pass to place itself among the greatest in the family of nations. His fame will grow brighter as time passes and his great great work is better understood.
U. S. Grant.
At the moment when the stars of the Union, sparkling and resplendent with the golden fires of liberty, are waving over the subdued walls of Richmond the sepulchre opens, and the strong, the powerful enters it.
Sr. Rebello Da Silva.
He ascended the mount where he could see the fair fields and the smiling vineyards of the promised land. But, like the great leader of Israel, he was not permitted to come to the possession.
Seth Sweetser.
In his freedom from passion and bitterness; in his acute sense of justice; in his courageous faith in the right, and his inextinguishable hatred of wrong; in his warm and heartfelt sympathy and mercy; in his coolness of judgment; in his unquestioned rectitude of intention—in a word, in his ability to lift himself for his country's sake above all mere partisanship, in all the marked traits of his character combined, he has had no parallel since Washington, and while our republic endures he will live with him in the grateful hearts of his grateful countrymen.
Schuyler Colfax.
BY HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL
Dead is the roll of the drums,And the distant thunders die,They fade in the far-off sky;And a lovely summer comes,Like the smile of Him on high.Lulled, the storm and the onset.Earth lies in a sunny swoon;Stiller splendor of noon,Softer glory of sunset,Milder starlight and moon!For the kindly Seasons love us;They smile over trench and clod(Where we left the bravest of us)—There's a brighter green of the sod,And a holier calm above usIn the blessed Blue of God.The roar and ravage were vain;And Nature, that never yields,Is busy with sun and rainAt her old sweet work againOn the lonely battle-fields.How the tall white daisies grow,Where the grim artillery rolled!(Was it only a moon ago?It seems a century old)—And the bee hums in the clover,As the pleasant June comes on;Aye, the wars are all over,—But our good Father is gone.There was tumbling of traitor fort,Flaming of traitor fleet—Lighting of city and port,Clasping in square and street.There was thunder of mine and gun,Cheering by mast and tent,—When—his dread work all done,And his high fame full won—Died the Good President.In his quiet chair he sate,Pure of malice or guile,Stainless of fear or hate,—And there played a pleasant smileOn the rough and careworn face;For his heart was all the whileOn means of mercy and grace.The brave old Flag drooped o'er him,(A fold in the hard hand lay)—He looked, perchance, on the play—But the scene was a shadow before him,For his thoughts were far away.'Twas but the morn (yon fearfulDeath-shade, gloomy and vast,Lifting slowly at last),His household heard him say,"'Tis long since I've been so cheerful,So light of heart as to-day."'Twas dying, the long dread clang—But, or ever the blessèd rayOf peace could brighten to-day,Murder stood by the way—Treason struck home his fang!One throb—and, without a pang,That pure soul passed away.Kindly Spirit!—Ah, when did treasonBid such a generous nature cease,Mild by temper and strong by reason,But ever leaning to love and peace?A head how sober; a heart how spacious;A manner equal with high or low;Rough but gentle, uncouth but gracious,And still inclining to lips of woe.Patient when saddest, calm when sternest,Grieved when rigid for justice' sake;Given to jest, yet ever in earnestIf aught of right or truth were at stake.Simple of heart, yet shrewd therewith,Slow to resolve, but firm to hold;Still with parable and with mythSeasoning truth, like Them of old;Aptest humor and quaintest pith!(Still we smile o'er the tales he told.)Yet whoso might pierce the guiseOf mirth in the man we mourn,Would mark, and with grieved surprise,All the great soul had borne,In the piteous lines, and the kind, sad eyesSo dreadfully wearied and worn.And we trusted (the last dread pageOnce turned, of our Dooms-day Scroll),To have seen him, sunny of soul,In a cheery, grand old age.But, Father, 'tis well with thee!And since ever, when God draws nigh,Some grief for the good must be,'Twas well, even so to die,—'Mid the thunder of Treason's fall,The yielding of haughty town,The crashing of cruel wall,The trembling of tyrant crown!The ringing of hearth and pavementTo the clash of falling chains,—The centuries of enslavementDead, with their blood-bought gains!And through trouble weary and long,Well hadst thou seen the way,Leaving the State so strongIt did not reel for a day.And even in death couldst giveA 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 skiesFor tokens of world-wide woe?The Land's great lamentations,The mighty mourning of cannonThe 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 shoreTo Canaveral's surfy shoal—From the rough Atlantic roarTo 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 sightTo 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 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 millionThat looked on the dark dead face,'Neath its sable-plumed pavilion,The crone of a humbler raceIs 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 soulsTo-day be glad; for againThe stormy music swells and rolls,Stirring the hearts of men.And under the Nation's Dome,They've guarded so well and long,Our boys come marching home,Two hundred thousand strong.All in the pleasant month of May,With war-worn colors and drums,Still through the livelong summer's day,Regiment, regiment comes.Like the tide, yesty and barmy,That sets on a wild lee-shore,Surge the ranks of an armyNever reviewed before!Who shall look on the like again,Or see such host of the brave?A mighty River of marching menRolls the Capital through—Rank on rank, and wave on wave,Of bayonet-crested blue!How the chargers neigh and champ,(Their riders weary of camp),With curvet and with caracole!—The cavalry comes with thunderous tramp,And the cannons heavily roll.And ever, flowery and gay,The Staff sweeps on in a sprayOf tossing forelocks and manes;But each bridle-arm has a weedOf funeral, black as the steedThat fiery Sheridan reins.Grandest of mortal sightsThe sun-browned ranks to view—The Colors ragg'd in a hundred fights,And the dusty Frocks of Blue!And all day, mile on mile,With cheer, and waving, and smile,The war-worn legions defileWhere the nation's noblest stand;And the Great Lieutenant looks on,With the Flower of a rescued Land,—For the terrible work is done,And the Good Fight is wonFor God and for Fatherland.So, from the fields they win,Our men are marching home,A million are marching home!To the cannon's thundering din,And banners on mast and dome,—And the ships come sailing inWith all their ensigns dight,As erst for a great sea-fight.Let every color fly,Every pennon flaunt in pride;Wave, Starry Flag, on high!Float in the sunny sky,Stream o'er the stormy tide!For every stripe of stainless hue,And every star in the field of blue,Ten thousand of the brave and trueHave laid them down and died.And in all our pride to-dayWe think, with a tender pain,Of those so far awayThey 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.Perish?—who was it saidOur Leader had passed away?Dead? Our President dead?He has not died for a day!We mourn for a little breathSuch as, late or soon, dust yields;But the Dark Flower of DeathBlooms 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.And around—(for there can ceaseThis earthly trouble)—they throng,The friends that have passed in peace,The foes that have seen their wrong.(But, a little from the rest,With sad eyes looking down,And brows of softened frown,With stern arms on the chest,Are two, standing abreast—Stonewall and Old John Brown.)But the stainless and the true,These by their President stand,To look on his last review,Or march with the old command.And lo! from a thousand fields,From all the old battle-haunts,A greater Army than Sherman wields,A grander Review than Grant's!Gathered home from the grave,Risen from sun and rain—Rescued from wind and waveOut of the stormy main—The Legions of our BraveAre all in their lines again!Many a stout Corps that went,Full-ranked, from camp and tent,And brought back a brigade;Many a brave regiment,That mustered only a squad.The lost battalions,That, when the fight went wrong,Stood and died at their guns,—The stormers steady and strong,With their best blood that boughtScrap, and ravelin, and wall,—The companies that foughtTill a corporal's guard was all.Many a valiant crew,That passed in battle and wreck,—Ah, so faithful and true!They died on the bloody deck,They sank in the soundless blue.All the loyal and boldThat lay on a soldier's bier,—The stretchers borne to the rear,The hammocks lowered to the hold.The shattered wreck we hurried,In death-fight, from deck and port,—The Blacks that Wagner buried—That died in the Bloody Fort!Comrades of camp and mess,Left, as they lay, to die,In the battle's sorest stress,When the storm of fight swept by,—They lay in the Wilderness,Ah, where did they not lie?In the tangled swamp they lay,They lay so still on the sward!—They rolled in the sick-bay,Moaning their lives away—They flushed in the fevered ward.They rotted in Libby yonder,They starved in the foul stockade—Hearing afar the thunderOf the Union cannonade!But the old wounds all are healed,And the dungeoned limbs are free,—The Blue Frocks rise from the field,The Blue Jackets out of the sea.They've 'scaped from the torture-den,They've broken the bloody sod,They're all come to life again!—The Third of a Million menThat died for Thee and for God!A tenderer green than MayThe Eternal Season wears,—The blue of our summer's dayIs dim and pallid to theirs,—The Horror faded away,And 'twas heaven all unawares!Tents on the Infinite Shore!Flags in the azuline sky,Sails on the seas once more!To-day, in the heaven on high,All under arms once more!The troops are all in their lines,The guidons flutter and play;But every bayonet shines,For all must march to-day.What lofty pennons flaunt?What mighty echoes haunt,As of great guns, o'er the main?Hark to the sound again—The Congress is all a-taunt!The Cumberland's manned again!All the ships and their menAre in line of battle to-day,—All at quarters, as whenTheir last roll thundered away,—All at their guns, as then,For the Fleet salutes to-day.The armies have broken campOn the vast and sunny plain,The drums are rolling again;With steady, measured tramp,They're marching all again.With alignment firm and solemn,Once again they formIn mighty square and column,—But never for charge and storm.The Old Flag they died underFloats above them on the shore,And on the great ships yonderThe ensigns dip once more—And once again the thunderOf the thirty guns and four!In solid platoons of steel,Under heaven's triumphal arch,The long lines break and wheel—And the word is, "Forward, march!"The Colors ripple o'erhead,The drums roll up to the sky,And with martial time and treadThe regiments all pass by—The ranks of our faithful Dead,Meeting their President's eye.With a soldier's quiet prideThey smile o'er the perished pain,For their anguish was not vain—For thee, O Father, we died!And we did not die in vain.March on, your last brave mile!Salute him, Star and Lace,Form round him, rank and file,And look on the kind, rough face;But the quaint and homely smileHas a glory and a graceIt never had known erewhile—Never, in time and space.Close round him, hearts of pride!Press near him, side by side,—Our Father is not alone!For the Holy Right ye died,And Christ, the Crucified,Waits to welcome His own.
Dead is the roll of the drums,And the distant thunders die,They fade in the far-off sky;And a lovely summer comes,Like the smile of Him on high.
Lulled, the storm and the onset.Earth lies in a sunny swoon;Stiller splendor of noon,Softer glory of sunset,Milder starlight and moon!
For the kindly Seasons love us;They smile over trench and clod(Where we left the bravest of us)—There's a brighter green of the sod,And a holier calm above usIn the blessed Blue of God.
The roar and ravage were vain;And Nature, that never yields,Is busy with sun and rainAt her old sweet work againOn the lonely battle-fields.
How the tall white daisies grow,Where the grim artillery rolled!(Was it only a moon ago?It seems a century old)—
And the bee hums in the clover,As the pleasant June comes on;Aye, the wars are all over,—But our good Father is gone.
There was tumbling of traitor fort,Flaming of traitor fleet—Lighting of city and port,Clasping in square and street.
There was thunder of mine and gun,Cheering by mast and tent,—When—his dread work all done,And his high fame full won—Died the Good President.
In his quiet chair he sate,Pure of malice or guile,Stainless of fear or hate,—And there played a pleasant smileOn the rough and careworn face;For his heart was all the whileOn means of mercy and grace.
The brave old Flag drooped o'er him,(A fold in the hard hand lay)—He looked, perchance, on the play—But the scene was a shadow before him,For his thoughts were far away.
'Twas but the morn (yon fearfulDeath-shade, gloomy and vast,Lifting slowly at last),His household heard him say,"'Tis long since I've been so cheerful,So light of heart as to-day."
'Twas dying, the long dread clang—But, or ever the blessèd rayOf peace could brighten to-day,Murder stood by the way—Treason struck home his fang!One throb—and, without a pang,That pure soul passed away.
Kindly Spirit!—Ah, when did treasonBid such a generous nature cease,Mild by temper and strong by reason,But ever leaning to love and peace?
A head how sober; a heart how spacious;A manner equal with high or low;Rough but gentle, uncouth but gracious,And still inclining to lips of woe.
Patient when saddest, calm when sternest,Grieved when rigid for justice' sake;Given to jest, yet ever in earnestIf aught of right or truth were at stake.
Simple of heart, yet shrewd therewith,Slow to resolve, but firm to hold;Still with parable and with mythSeasoning truth, like Them of old;Aptest humor and quaintest pith!(Still we smile o'er the tales he told.)
Yet whoso might pierce the guiseOf mirth in the man we mourn,Would mark, and with grieved surprise,All the great soul had borne,In the piteous lines, and the kind, sad eyesSo dreadfully wearied and worn.
And we trusted (the last dread pageOnce turned, of our Dooms-day Scroll),To have seen him, sunny of soul,In a cheery, grand old age.
But, Father, 'tis well with thee!And since ever, when God draws nigh,Some grief for the good must be,'Twas well, even so to die,—
'Mid the thunder of Treason's fall,The yielding of haughty town,The crashing of cruel wall,The trembling of tyrant crown!
The ringing of hearth and pavementTo the clash of falling chains,—The centuries of enslavementDead, with their blood-bought gains!
And through trouble weary and long,Well hadst thou seen the way,Leaving the State so strongIt did not reel for a day.
And even in death couldst giveA 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 skiesFor tokens of world-wide woe?
The Land's great lamentations,The mighty mourning of cannonThe 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 shoreTo Canaveral's surfy shoal—From the rough Atlantic roarTo 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 sightTo 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 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 millionThat looked on the dark dead face,'Neath its sable-plumed pavilion,The crone of a humbler raceIs 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 soulsTo-day be glad; for againThe stormy music swells and rolls,Stirring the hearts of men.
And under the Nation's Dome,They've guarded so well and long,Our boys come marching home,Two hundred thousand strong.
All in the pleasant month of May,With war-worn colors and drums,Still through the livelong summer's day,Regiment, regiment comes.
Like the tide, yesty and barmy,That sets on a wild lee-shore,Surge the ranks of an armyNever reviewed before!
Who shall look on the like again,Or see such host of the brave?A mighty River of marching menRolls the Capital through—Rank on rank, and wave on wave,Of bayonet-crested blue!
How the chargers neigh and champ,(Their riders weary of camp),With curvet and with caracole!—The cavalry comes with thunderous tramp,And the cannons heavily roll.
And ever, flowery and gay,The Staff sweeps on in a sprayOf tossing forelocks and manes;But each bridle-arm has a weedOf funeral, black as the steedThat fiery Sheridan reins.
Grandest of mortal sightsThe sun-browned ranks to view—The Colors ragg'd in a hundred fights,And the dusty Frocks of Blue!
And all day, mile on mile,With cheer, and waving, and smile,The war-worn legions defileWhere the nation's noblest stand;And the Great Lieutenant looks on,With the Flower of a rescued Land,—For the terrible work is done,And the Good Fight is wonFor God and for Fatherland.
So, from the fields they win,Our men are marching home,A million are marching home!To the cannon's thundering din,And banners on mast and dome,—And the ships come sailing inWith all their ensigns dight,As erst for a great sea-fight.
Let every color fly,Every pennon flaunt in pride;Wave, Starry Flag, on high!Float in the sunny sky,Stream o'er the stormy tide!For every stripe of stainless hue,And every star in the field of blue,Ten thousand of the brave and trueHave laid them down and died.
And in all our pride to-dayWe think, with a tender pain,Of those so far awayThey 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.
Perish?—who was it saidOur Leader had passed away?Dead? Our President dead?He has not died for a day!
We mourn for a little breathSuch as, late or soon, dust yields;But the Dark Flower of DeathBlooms 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.
And around—(for there can ceaseThis earthly trouble)—they throng,The friends that have passed in peace,The foes that have seen their wrong.
(But, a little from the rest,With sad eyes looking down,And brows of softened frown,With stern arms on the chest,Are two, standing abreast—Stonewall and Old John Brown.)
But the stainless and the true,These by their President stand,To look on his last review,Or march with the old command.
And lo! from a thousand fields,From all the old battle-haunts,A greater Army than Sherman wields,A grander Review than Grant's!
Gathered home from the grave,Risen from sun and rain—Rescued from wind and waveOut of the stormy main—The Legions of our BraveAre all in their lines again!
Many a stout Corps that went,Full-ranked, from camp and tent,And brought back a brigade;Many a brave regiment,That mustered only a squad.
The lost battalions,That, when the fight went wrong,Stood and died at their guns,—The stormers steady and strong,
With their best blood that boughtScrap, and ravelin, and wall,—The companies that foughtTill a corporal's guard was all.
Many a valiant crew,That passed in battle and wreck,—Ah, so faithful and true!They died on the bloody deck,They sank in the soundless blue.
All the loyal and boldThat lay on a soldier's bier,—The stretchers borne to the rear,The hammocks lowered to the hold.
The shattered wreck we hurried,In death-fight, from deck and port,—The Blacks that Wagner buried—That died in the Bloody Fort!
Comrades of camp and mess,Left, as they lay, to die,In the battle's sorest stress,When the storm of fight swept by,—They lay in the Wilderness,Ah, where did they not lie?
In the tangled swamp they lay,They lay so still on the sward!—They rolled in the sick-bay,Moaning their lives away—They flushed in the fevered ward.
They rotted in Libby yonder,They starved in the foul stockade—Hearing afar the thunderOf the Union cannonade!
But the old wounds all are healed,And the dungeoned limbs are free,—The Blue Frocks rise from the field,The Blue Jackets out of the sea.
They've 'scaped from the torture-den,They've broken the bloody sod,They're all come to life again!—The Third of a Million menThat died for Thee and for God!
A tenderer green than MayThe Eternal Season wears,—The blue of our summer's dayIs dim and pallid to theirs,—The Horror faded away,And 'twas heaven all unawares!
Tents on the Infinite Shore!Flags in the azuline sky,Sails on the seas once more!To-day, in the heaven on high,All under arms once more!
The troops are all in their lines,The guidons flutter and play;But every bayonet shines,For all must march to-day.
What lofty pennons flaunt?What mighty echoes haunt,As of great guns, o'er the main?Hark to the sound again—The Congress is all a-taunt!The Cumberland's manned again!
All the ships and their menAre in line of battle to-day,—All at quarters, as whenTheir last roll thundered away,—All at their guns, as then,For the Fleet salutes to-day.
The armies have broken campOn the vast and sunny plain,The drums are rolling again;With steady, measured tramp,They're marching all again.
With alignment firm and solemn,Once again they formIn mighty square and column,—But never for charge and storm.
The Old Flag they died underFloats above them on the shore,And on the great ships yonderThe ensigns dip once more—And once again the thunderOf the thirty guns and four!
In solid platoons of steel,Under heaven's triumphal arch,The long lines break and wheel—And the word is, "Forward, march!"
The Colors ripple o'erhead,The drums roll up to the sky,And with martial time and treadThe regiments all pass by—The ranks of our faithful Dead,Meeting their President's eye.
With a soldier's quiet prideThey smile o'er the perished pain,For their anguish was not vain—For thee, O Father, we died!And we did not die in vain.
March on, your last brave mile!Salute him, Star and Lace,Form round him, rank and file,And look on the kind, rough face;
But the quaint and homely smileHas a glory and a graceIt never had known erewhile—Never, in time and space.
Close round him, hearts of pride!Press near him, side by side,—Our Father is not alone!For the Holy Right ye died,And Christ, the Crucified,Waits to welcome His own.
A statesman of the school of sound common sense, and a philanthropist of the most practical type, a patriot without a superior—his monument is a country preserved.
C. S. Harrington.
Now all men begin to see that the plain people, who at last came to love him and to lean upon his wisdom, and trust him absolutely, were altogether right, and that in deed and purpose he was earnestly devoted to the welfare of the whole country, and of all its inhabitants.
R. B. Hayes.
BY JOEL BENTON