ROTUNDA, CITY HALL, NEW YORK, N. Y.Theremains of President Lincoln lay in state in the City Hall, New York, from noon April 24 to noon April 25, 1865. Visitors were admitted to view the remains, passing through the Hall two abreast. Singing societies sang dirges in the rotunda the night through.topRichard Storrs Williswas born in Boston, Massachusetts, February 10, 1819, was graduated at Yale in 1841, and adopted literature as his profession. He has published musical and other poems; has edited theNew York Musical WorldandOnce a Week,and contributed also to current literature. He wrote the following:REQUIEM OF LINCOLNNowwake the requiem's solemn moan,For him whose patriot task is done!A nation's heart stands still todayWith horror, o'er his martyred clay!O, God of Peace, repress the ire,Which fills our souls with vengeful fire!Vengeance is Thine—and sovereign might,Alone, can such a crime requite!Farewell, thou good and guileless heart!The manliest tears for thee must start!E'en those at times who blamed thee here,Now deeply sorrow o'er thy bier.O, Jesus, grant him sweet repose,Who, like Thee, seemed to love his foes!Those foes, like Thine, their wrath to spend,Have slain their best, their firmest friend.topST. JAMES HALL, BUFFALO, N. Y.Thefuneral train bearing the remains of President Lincoln reached Buffalo, New York, on Thursday morning, the 27th of April. The body was taken from the funeral car and borne by soldiers up to St. James' Hall, where it was placed under a crape canopy, extending from the ceiling to the floor. The Buffalo St. Cecilia Society sang with deep pathos the dirge "Rest, Spirit, Rest," the society then placed an elegantly formed harp, made of choice white flowers, at the head of the coffin, as a tribute from them to the honored dead. The public were admitted to view the remains, and the following day the remains reached Cleveland, Ohio.James Nicoll Johnstonwas born in Ardee, County Donegal, Ireland. When two years of age the family moved to Cashelmore, Sheephaven Bay, County Donegal. In 1847 they moved to America. He was then between fifteen and sixteen years of age.topIn 1848 they settled at Buffalo, New York, which has been his home until the present time.He has published two editions ofDonegal Memories,also two editions ofDonegal Memories and Other Poems,and a volume of Buffalo verse collected by him under the title ofPoets and Poetry of Buffalo.He assisted in collections of Buffalo local literature, also devoted much time to the production of publications of a philanthropic nature.REQUIEMBearhim to his Western home,Whence he came four years ago;Not beneath some Eastern dome,But where Freedom's airs may come,Where the prairie grasses grow,To the friends who loved him so,Take him to his quiet rest;Toll the bell and fire the gun;He who served his Country best,He whom millions loved and bless'd,Now has fame immortal won;Rack of brain and heart is done.Shed thy tears, O April rain,O'er the tomb wherein he sleeps!Wash away the bloody stain!Drape the skies in grief, O rain!Lo! a nation with thee weeps,Grieving o'er her martyred slain.To the people whence he came,Bear him gently back again,Greater his than victor's fame:His is now a sainted name;Never ruler had suchgain—Never people had such pain.topPRESIDENT LINCOLNPhotograph taken in 1863 by BradyOliver Wendell Holmes, born in Cambridge, Mass., August 29, 1809. To him belongs the credit of saving the frigate Constitution from destruction, by a poem—Aye, Tear the Battered Ensign Down.He died August 7, 1894.topSERVICES IN MEMORY OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN(City of Boston, June 1, 1865)O Thouof soul and sense and breath,The ever-present Giver,Unto Thy mighty angel, death,All flesh Thou didst deliver;What most we cherish, we resign,For life and death alike are Thine,Who reignest Lord forever!Our hearts lie buried in the dustWith him, so true and tender,The patriot's stay, the people's trust,The shield of the offender;Yet every murmuring voice is still,As, bowing to Thy sovereign will,Our best loved we surrender.Dear Lord, with pitying eye beholdThis martyr generation,Which Thou, through trials manifold,Art showing Thy salvation!O let the blood by murder spiltWash out Thy stricken children's guilt,And sanctify our Nation!Be Thou Thy orphaned Israel's friend,Forsake Thy people never,In one our broken many blend,That none again may sever!Hear us, O Father, while we raiseWith trembling lips our song of praise,And bless Thy name forever!topLINCOLN HOMESTEAD, MAY 4, 1865Photographed by F. W. Ingmire on the day of the funeral, with the members of the National Committee appointed to accompany the remains to Springfield, Illinois.Members on the pavement: Left (1) Hon. Schuyler Colfax, Speaker of the House; (2) Hon. R. C. Schenck, Ohio;(3) Hon. Lyman Trumbull, Illinois;(4) Hon. Charles E. Phelps, Maryland;(5) Hon. W. H. Wallace, Idaho;(6) Hon. Joseph Baily, Pennsylvania; (7) Hon. James K. Morehead, Pennsylvania; (8) Hon. Sidney Clarke, Kansas; (9) Hon. Samuel Hooper, Massachusetts; (10) Hon. E. B. Washburn, Illinois; (11) Hon. Thomas W. Ferry, Michigan; (12) Hon. Thomas B. Shannon, California; (13) S. G. Ordway, Sergeant-at-Arms of the House.Members in the yard: Left (1) Hon. Isaac N. Arnold, Illinois; (2) Hon. John B. Henderson, Missouri; (3) Hen. Richard Yates, Illinois; (4) Hon. James W. Nye, Nevada; (5) Hon. Henry S. Lane, Indiana; (6) Hon. George H. Williams, Oregon; (7) Hon. George T. Brown, Sergeant-at-Arms of the Senate; (8) Hon. William A. Newell, New Jersey.topWilliam Allen, D.D., born 1784, died 1868. Graduated at Harvard, 1802. President Dartmouth College, 1816-1819, Bowdoin College, 1820-1839. He was the father of American Biography, published various volumes of poems; as a philologist, he contributed many thousands of words and definitions to Webster and Worcester's dictionaries. He was leader of the American delegation to the National Peace Congress at Versailles in 1849.SPRINGFIELD'S WELCOME TO LINCOLNLincoln! thy country's father, hail!We bid thee welcome, but bewail;Welcome unto thy chosenhome—Triumphant, glorious, dost thou come.Before the enemy struck the blowThat laid thee in a moment low,God gave thy wish: It was to seeOur Union safe, our country free.A country where the gospel truthShall reach the hearts of age and youth,And move unchained, in majesty,A model land of liberty!When Jacob's bones, from Egypt borne,Regained their home, the people mourn;Great mourning then at Ephron's cave,Both Abraham's and Isaac's grave.Far greater is the mourning now;For our land one emblem wide of woe;And where thy coffin car appearsDo not the people throng in tears?topThy triumph of a thousand miles,Like eastern conqueror with hisspoils—A million hearts thy captives led,All weeping for their chieftain dead.Thy chariot, moved with eagle speedWithout the aid of prancing steed,Has brought thee to that destined tomb;Springfield, thy home, will give thee room.Lincoln, the martyr, welcome home!What lessons blossom on thy tomb!In God's pure truth and law delight;With firm, unwavering soul do right.Be condescending, kind and just;In God's wise counsels put thy trust;Let no proud soul e'er dare rebel,Moved by vile passions sprung from hell.Come, sleep with us in sweet repose,Till we, as Christ from death arose,Still in His glorious image riseTo dwell with him beyond the skies.topSTATE CAPITOL, ILLINOIS, 1865Thebody of the President lay in state in the Capitol, Springfield, Illinois—which was very richly draped—from May 3 to May 4, when it was removed to Oak Ridge Cemetery.Lucy Hamilton Hooper, born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, January 20, 1835. In conjunction with Charles G. Leland she editedOur Daily Fare,the daily chronicle of the Philadelphia Sanitary Fair in 1864. She was assistant editor ofLippincott's Magazinefrom its foundation until she went to Europe in 1870. In 1874 she settled in Paris and since has been correspondent for various journals in this country. She has publishedPoems, with Translations from the German(Philadelphia, 1864), another volume ofPoems(1871); a translation ofLe Nabob,by Alphonse Daudet (Boston, 1879); andUnder the Tricolor,a novel (Philadelphia, 1880). She died August 31, 1893.topLINCOLNThereis a shadow on the sunny air,There is a darkness o'er the April day,We bow our heads beneath this awful cloudSo sudden come, and not to pass away.O the wild grief that sweeps across our landFrom frozen Maine to Californian shore!A people's tears, an orphaned nation's wail,For him the good, the great, who is no more.The noblest brain that ever toiled for man,The kindest heart that ever thrilled a breast,The lofty soul unstained by soil of earth,Sent by a traitor to a martyr's rest.And his last act (O gentle, kindly heart!)The noble prompting of unselfish grace.He would not disappoint the waiting crowdWho came to gaze upon his honored face.O God, thy ways are just, and yet we findThis dispensation hard to understand.Why must our Prophet's weary feet be stay'dUpon the borders of the Promised Land?He bore the heat, the burden of the day,The golden eventide he shall not see;He shall not see the old flag wave againOver a land united, saved, and free.He loved his people, and he ever lentTo all our griefs a sympathizing ear;Now for the first time in these four sad yearsThe stricken nation wails—he does not hear.topO never wept a land a nobler Chief!Kind heart, strong hand, true soul—yet, while we weepLet us remember, e'en amid our tears,'Tis God who gives to his beloved sleep.So sleeps he now, the chosen man of God,No more shall care or sorrow wring his breast;The weary one and heavy laden, liesHushed by the voice of God to endless rest.We need no solemn knell, no tolling bells,No chanted dirge, no vain words sadly said.The saddest knell that ever stirred the airRang in those words, "Our President is dead!"topPUBLIC VAULT, OAK RIDGE CEMETERY, SPRINGFIELD, ILL.,On the day of Lincoln's funeralTheremains of President Lincoln were deposited in this receiving vault of Oak Ridge Cemetery, Springfield, Illinois, on the 4th of May, 1865, where they remained until December 21, 1865, when they were removed to a temporary vault near the site of the public one. On September 19, 1871, the remains were removed to the monument which had been erected and which stands on the top of the hill in that cemetery back of the public vault. The remains of Mrs. Lincoln, Willie and Thomas (Tad), are also resting there.topLET THE PRESIDENT SLEEPBy James M. StewartLetthe President sleep! all his duty is done,He has lived for our glory, the triumph is won;At the close of the fight, like a warrior brave,He retires from the field to the rest of the grave.Hush the roll of the drum, hush the cannon's loud roar,He will guide us to peace through the battle no more;But new freedom shall dawn from the place of his rest,Where the star has gone down in the beautiful West.Tread lightly, breathe softly, and gratefully bringTo the sod that enfolds him the first flowers of spring;They will tenderly treasure the tears that we weepO'er the grave of our chief—let the President sleep.Let the President sleep—tears will hallow the ground,Where we raise o'er his ashes the sheltering mound,And his spirit will sometimes return from above,There to mingle with ours in ineffable love.Peace to thee, noble dead, thou hast battled for right,And hast won high reward from the Father of Light;Peace to thee, martyr-hero, and sweet be thy rest,Where the sunlight fades out in the beautiful West.Tread lightly, breathe softly, and gratefully bringTo the sod that enfolds him the first flowers of spring;They will tenderly treasure the tears that we weepO'er the grave of our chief—let the President sleep!topFACADE OF PUBLIC VAULTOak Ridge Cemetery, Springfield, Illinois, in which the body of Lincoln was placed, May 4, 1865topJames Mackay, born in New York, April 8, 1872. Author ofThe Economy of Happiness,The Politics of Utility,and of various lectures on Scientific Ethics, etc.THE CENOTAPH OF LINCOLNAndso they buried Lincoln? Strange and vainHas any creature thought of Lincoln hidIn any vault 'neath any coffin lid,In all the years since that wild spring of pain?'Tis false—he never in the grave hath lain.You could not bury him although you slidUpon his clay the Cheops Pyramid,Or heaped it with the Rocky Mountain chain.They slew themselves;—they but set Lincoln free.In all the earth his great heart beats as strong,Shall beat while pulses throb to chivalry,And burn with hate of tyranny and wrong.Whoever will may find him, anywhereSave in the tomb. Not there—he is not there.topLINCOLN MONUMENTSpringfield, Illinois, Larken G. Mead, ArchitectA movementwas started shortly after the burial of Lincoln to raise funds sufficient to build a monument over his grave. Contributions were made by various States and societies, and about sixty thousand Sunday-school scholars contributed the sum of eighteen thousand dollars. Ground was broken on the 9th of September, 1869, and the monument was dedicated on the 15th of October, 1874, at a total cost of two hundred and thirty thousand dollars.topJames Judson Lord, born at Berwick, Maine, in 1821. He had the advantage of an excellent early education followed by years of research. During his preparatory studies at Cambridge he met Longfellow, who loaned him books from his own library. For a time he studied art under prominent masters, but his health failing, after a time of forced leisure he went into the mercantile business in Boston, which vocation he afterward followed. In 1851 he went to Illinois; finally, after his marriage, settling in Springfield. There he knew Mr. Lincoln, with whom he was on terms of closest friendship.The poem submitted by Mr. Lord was selected for reading at the dedication of the National Lincoln Monument in a competition which brought contributions from many leading poets.He was the author of several dramas, and from time to time contributed poems to leading magazines and newspapers of the country. He died January 3, 1905.DEDICATION POEMRead by Richard Edwards, LL.D., President Illinois State Normal University at Bloomington, IllinoisWebuild not here a temple or a shrine,Nor hero-fane to demigods divine;Nor to the clouds a superstructure rearFor man's ambition or for servile fear.Not to the Dust, but to the Deeds aloneA grateful people raise th' historic stone;For where a patriot lived, or hero fell,The daisied turf would mark the spot as well.What though the Pyramids, with apex high,Like Alpine peaks cleave Egypt's rainless sky,And cast grim shadows o'er a desert landtopForever blighted by oppression's hand?No patriot zeal their deep foundationslaid—No freeman's hand their darken'd chambersmade—No public weal inspired the heart with love,To see their summits towering high above.The ruling Pharaoh, proud and gory-stained,With vain ambitions never yetattained;—With brow enclouded as his marble throne,And heart unyielding as the buildingstone;—Sought with the scourge to make mankind his slaves,And heaven's free sunlight darker than their graves.His but to will, and theirs to yield and feel,Like vermin'd dust beneath his ironheel;—Denies all mercy, and all right offends,Till on his head th' avenging Plague descends.Historic justice bids the nations knowThat through each land of slaves a Nile of blood shall flow:And Vendome Columns, on a people thrust,Are, by the people, level'd with the dust.Nor stone, nor bronze, can fit memorials yieldFor deeds of valor on the bloody field,'Neath war's dark clouds the sturdy volunteer,By freedom taught his country to revere,Bids home and friends a hasty, sad adieu,And treads where dangers all his steps pursue;Finds cold and famine on his dauntless way,And with mute patience brooks the long delay,Or hears the trumpet, or the thrilling drumPeal the long roll that calls: "They come! they come!"Then to the front with battling hosts he flies,And lives to triumph, or for freedom dies.Thund'ring amain along the rocky strand,The Ocean claims her honors with the Land.topLoud on the gale she chimes the wild refrain,Or with low murmur wails her heroes slain!In gory hulks, with splinter'd mast and spar,Rocks on her stormy breast the valiantTar:—Lash'd to the mast he gives the high command,Or midst the fight, sinks with theCumberland.Beloved banner of the azure sky,Thy rightful home where'er thy eagles fly;On thy blue field the stars of heav'n descend,And to our day a purer luster lend.O, Righteous God! who guard'st the right alway,And bade Thy peace to come, "and come to stay":And while war's deluge fill'd the land with blood,With bow of promise arch'd the crimsonflood,—From fratricidal strife our banner screen,And let it float henceforth in skies serene.Yet cunning art shall here her triumphs bring,And laurel'd bards their choicest anthems sing.Here, honor'd age shall bare its wintery brow,And youth to freedom make a Spartan vow.Here, ripened manhood from its walks profound,Shall come and halt, as if on hallow'd ground.Here shall the urn with fragrant wreaths be drest,By tender hands the flow'ry tributes prest;And wending westward, from oppressions far,Shall pilgrims come, led by our freedom-star;While bending lowly, as o'er friendly pall,The silent tear from ebon cheeks shall fall.Sterile and vain the tributes which wepay—It is the Past that consecrates todayThe spot where rests one of the noble fewWho saw the right, and dared the right to do.topTrue to himself and to his fellow men,With patient hand he moved the potent pen,Whose inky stream did, like the Red Sea's flow,Such bondage break and such a host o'erthrow!The simple parchment on its fleeting pageBespeaks the import of the betterage,—When man, for man, no more shall forge the chain,Nor armies tread the shore, nor navies plow the main.Then shall this boon to human freedom givenBe fitly deem'd a sacred gift ofheaven;—Though of the earth, it is no lessdivine,—Founded on truth it will forever shine,Reflecting rays from heaven's unchangingplan—The law of right and brotherhood of man.Edna Dean Proctor, born in Henniker, New Hampshire, October 10, 1838. She received her early education in Concord and subsequently removed to Brooklyn, New York. She contributed largely to magazine literature and has traveled extensively abroad. Of all her poemsBy the Shenandoahis probably the most popular.THE GRAVE OF LINCOLNNowmust the storied PotomacLaurels forever divide;Now to the Sangamon famelessGive of its century's pride.Sangamon, stream of the prairies,Placidly westward that flows,Far in whose city of silenceCalm he has sought his repose.Over our Washington's riverSunrise beams rosy and fair;topSunset on Sangamonfairer,—Father and martyr lies there.Break into blossom, O prairie!Snowy and golden and red;Peers of the Palestine liliesHeap for your Glorious Dead!Roses as fair as of Sharon,Branches as stately as palm,Odors as rich as thespices—Cassia and aloes andbalm—Mary the loved and Salome,All with a gracious accord,Ere the first glow of the morningBrought to the tomb of the Lord.Not for thy sheaves nor savannasCrown we thee, proud Illinois!Here in his grave is thy grandeur;Born of his sorrow thy joy.Only the tomb by Mount Zion,Hewn for the Lord, do we holdDearer than his in thy prairies,Girdled with harvests of gold!Still for the world through the agesWreathing with glory his brow,He shall be Liberty's Saviour;Freedom's Jerusalem thou!topSTATUE OF LINCOLNIn Lincoln Park, Washington, D. C. Thomas Ball, sculptor.Thefirst contribution of five dollars for the statue in Lincoln Park, Washington, D. C., was made by a colored woman named Charlotte Scott, of Marietta, Ohio, the morning after the assassination of President Lincoln, and the entire cost of said monument, amounting to $17,000, was paid by subscriptions of colored people. It was unveiled April 14, 1876.topJames Russell Lowell, born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, February 22, 1819. He received his degree in 1838, at Harvard, and his first production was a class poem which was delivered on that date. He was successor of Professor Longfellow in the chair of Modern Languages at Harvard College. In 1877 he was appointed by President Hayes to the Spanish Mission, from which he was transferred in 1880 to the Court of St. James. A long list of poetical works have been published to his credit. He died August 12, 1891.COMMEMORATION ODELifemay be given in many ways,And loyalty to Truth be sealedAs bravely in the closet as the field,So bountiful 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 measures of a stalwart man,Limbed like the old heroic breeds,Who stand 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.topNature, they say, doth dote,And cannot make a manSave on some worn-out plan,Repeating us by rote:For him her Old World molds 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 sea-mark 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 or 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.topI 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 his 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.topSTATUE OF LINCOLNBy Leonard W. VolktopRichard Henry Stoddard, born in Hingham, Massachusetts, July 2, 1825. His first book, entitledFoot Prints,was published in 1849, and some three years after a more mature collection of poems was published. In later years a number of his books were published, all of which have been received with approbation by the public. Died May 12, 1903.AN HORATIAN ODE(To Lincoln)Notas when some great captain fallsIn battle, where his country calls,Beyond the struggling linesThat push his dread designsTo doom, by some stray ball struck dead:Or in the last charge, at the headOf his determined men,Who must be victors then!Nor as when sink the civic great,The safer pillars of the State,Whose calm, mature, wise wordsSuppress the need of swords!With no such tears as e'er were shedAbove the noblest of our deadDo we today deploreThe man that is no more.Our sorrow hath a wider scope,Too strange for fear, too vast forhope,—A wonder, blind and dumb,That waits—what is to come!topNot more astonished had we beenIf madness, that dark night, unseen,Had in our chambers crept,And murdered while we slept!We woke to find a mourningearth—Our Lares shivered on thehearth,—To roof-tree fallen—allThat could affright, appall!Such thunderbolts, in other lands,Have smitten the rod from royal hands,But spared, with us, till now,Each laureled Caesar's brow.No Caesar he, whom we lament,A man without a precedent,Sent it would seem, to doHis work—and perish too!Not by the weary cares of state,The endless tasks, which will not wait,Which, often done in vain,Must yet be done again;Not in the dark, wild tide of war,Which rose so high, and rolled so far,Sweeping from sea to seaIn awfulanarchy;—Four fateful years of mortal strife,Which slowly drained the Nation's life,(Yet, for each drop that ranThere sprang an armed man!)topNot then;—but when by measuresmeet—By victory, and by defeat,By courage, patience, skill,The people's fixed "We will!"Had pierced, had crushed rebelliondead—Without a hand, without ahead:—At last, when all was well,He fell—O, how he fell!Tyrants have fallen by such as thou,And good hath followed,—may it now!(God lets bad instrumentsProduce the best events.)But he, the man we mourn today,No tyrant was; so mild a swayIn one such weight who boreWas never known before!From "Poems of Richard Henry Stoddard"Copyright, 1880, by Charles Scribner's Sons.top
ROTUNDA, CITY HALL, NEW YORK, N. Y.
Theremains of President Lincoln lay in state in the City Hall, New York, from noon April 24 to noon April 25, 1865. Visitors were admitted to view the remains, passing through the Hall two abreast. Singing societies sang dirges in the rotunda the night through.
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Richard Storrs Williswas born in Boston, Massachusetts, February 10, 1819, was graduated at Yale in 1841, and adopted literature as his profession. He has published musical and other poems; has edited theNew York Musical WorldandOnce a Week,and contributed also to current literature. He wrote the following:
Nowwake the requiem's solemn moan,For him whose patriot task is done!A nation's heart stands still todayWith horror, o'er his martyred clay!
Nowwake the requiem's solemn moan,
For him whose patriot task is done!
A nation's heart stands still today
With horror, o'er his martyred clay!
O, God of Peace, repress the ire,Which fills our souls with vengeful fire!Vengeance is Thine—and sovereign might,Alone, can such a crime requite!
O, God of Peace, repress the ire,
Which fills our souls with vengeful fire!
Vengeance is Thine—and sovereign might,
Alone, can such a crime requite!
Farewell, thou good and guileless heart!The manliest tears for thee must start!E'en those at times who blamed thee here,Now deeply sorrow o'er thy bier.
Farewell, thou good and guileless heart!
The manliest tears for thee must start!
E'en those at times who blamed thee here,
Now deeply sorrow o'er thy bier.
O, Jesus, grant him sweet repose,Who, like Thee, seemed to love his foes!Those foes, like Thine, their wrath to spend,Have slain their best, their firmest friend.
O, Jesus, grant him sweet repose,
Who, like Thee, seemed to love his foes!
Those foes, like Thine, their wrath to spend,
Have slain their best, their firmest friend.
top
ST. JAMES HALL, BUFFALO, N. Y.
Thefuneral train bearing the remains of President Lincoln reached Buffalo, New York, on Thursday morning, the 27th of April. The body was taken from the funeral car and borne by soldiers up to St. James' Hall, where it was placed under a crape canopy, extending from the ceiling to the floor. The Buffalo St. Cecilia Society sang with deep pathos the dirge "Rest, Spirit, Rest," the society then placed an elegantly formed harp, made of choice white flowers, at the head of the coffin, as a tribute from them to the honored dead. The public were admitted to view the remains, and the following day the remains reached Cleveland, Ohio.
James Nicoll Johnstonwas born in Ardee, County Donegal, Ireland. When two years of age the family moved to Cashelmore, Sheephaven Bay, County Donegal. In 1847 they moved to America. He was then between fifteen and sixteen years of age.topIn 1848 they settled at Buffalo, New York, which has been his home until the present time.
He has published two editions ofDonegal Memories,also two editions ofDonegal Memories and Other Poems,and a volume of Buffalo verse collected by him under the title ofPoets and Poetry of Buffalo.He assisted in collections of Buffalo local literature, also devoted much time to the production of publications of a philanthropic nature.
Bearhim to his Western home,Whence he came four years ago;Not beneath some Eastern dome,But where Freedom's airs may come,Where the prairie grasses grow,To the friends who loved him so,
Bearhim to his Western home,
Whence he came four years ago;
Not beneath some Eastern dome,
But where Freedom's airs may come,
Where the prairie grasses grow,
To the friends who loved him so,
Take him to his quiet rest;Toll the bell and fire the gun;He who served his Country best,He whom millions loved and bless'd,Now has fame immortal won;Rack of brain and heart is done.
Take him to his quiet rest;
Toll the bell and fire the gun;
He who served his Country best,
He whom millions loved and bless'd,
Now has fame immortal won;
Rack of brain and heart is done.
Shed thy tears, O April rain,O'er the tomb wherein he sleeps!Wash away the bloody stain!Drape the skies in grief, O rain!Lo! a nation with thee weeps,Grieving o'er her martyred slain.
Shed thy tears, O April rain,
O'er the tomb wherein he sleeps!
Wash away the bloody stain!
Drape the skies in grief, O rain!
Lo! a nation with thee weeps,
Grieving o'er her martyred slain.
To the people whence he came,Bear him gently back again,Greater his than victor's fame:His is now a sainted name;Never ruler had suchgain—Never people had such pain.
To the people whence he came,
Bear him gently back again,
Greater his than victor's fame:
His is now a sainted name;
Never ruler had suchgain—
Never people had such pain.
top
PRESIDENT LINCOLNPhotograph taken in 1863 by Brady
Oliver Wendell Holmes, born in Cambridge, Mass., August 29, 1809. To him belongs the credit of saving the frigate Constitution from destruction, by a poem—Aye, Tear the Battered Ensign Down.He died August 7, 1894.
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(City of Boston, June 1, 1865)
O Thouof soul and sense and breath,The ever-present Giver,Unto Thy mighty angel, death,All flesh Thou didst deliver;What most we cherish, we resign,For life and death alike are Thine,Who reignest Lord forever!
O Thouof soul and sense and breath,
The ever-present Giver,
Unto Thy mighty angel, death,
All flesh Thou didst deliver;
What most we cherish, we resign,
For life and death alike are Thine,
Who reignest Lord forever!
Our hearts lie buried in the dustWith him, so true and tender,The patriot's stay, the people's trust,The shield of the offender;Yet every murmuring voice is still,As, bowing to Thy sovereign will,Our best loved we surrender.
Our hearts lie buried in the dust
With him, so true and tender,
The patriot's stay, the people's trust,
The shield of the offender;
Yet every murmuring voice is still,
As, bowing to Thy sovereign will,
Our best loved we surrender.
Dear Lord, with pitying eye beholdThis martyr generation,Which Thou, through trials manifold,Art showing Thy salvation!O let the blood by murder spiltWash out Thy stricken children's guilt,And sanctify our Nation!
Dear Lord, with pitying eye behold
This martyr generation,
Which Thou, through trials manifold,
Art showing Thy salvation!
O let the blood by murder spilt
Wash out Thy stricken children's guilt,
And sanctify our Nation!
Be Thou Thy orphaned Israel's friend,Forsake Thy people never,In one our broken many blend,That none again may sever!Hear us, O Father, while we raiseWith trembling lips our song of praise,And bless Thy name forever!
Be Thou Thy orphaned Israel's friend,
Forsake Thy people never,
In one our broken many blend,
That none again may sever!
Hear us, O Father, while we raise
With trembling lips our song of praise,
And bless Thy name forever!
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LINCOLN HOMESTEAD, MAY 4, 1865
Photographed by F. W. Ingmire on the day of the funeral, with the members of the National Committee appointed to accompany the remains to Springfield, Illinois.
Members on the pavement: Left (1) Hon. Schuyler Colfax, Speaker of the House; (2) Hon. R. C. Schenck, Ohio;(3) Hon. Lyman Trumbull, Illinois;(4) Hon. Charles E. Phelps, Maryland;(5) Hon. W. H. Wallace, Idaho;(6) Hon. Joseph Baily, Pennsylvania; (7) Hon. James K. Morehead, Pennsylvania; (8) Hon. Sidney Clarke, Kansas; (9) Hon. Samuel Hooper, Massachusetts; (10) Hon. E. B. Washburn, Illinois; (11) Hon. Thomas W. Ferry, Michigan; (12) Hon. Thomas B. Shannon, California; (13) S. G. Ordway, Sergeant-at-Arms of the House.
Members in the yard: Left (1) Hon. Isaac N. Arnold, Illinois; (2) Hon. John B. Henderson, Missouri; (3) Hen. Richard Yates, Illinois; (4) Hon. James W. Nye, Nevada; (5) Hon. Henry S. Lane, Indiana; (6) Hon. George H. Williams, Oregon; (7) Hon. George T. Brown, Sergeant-at-Arms of the Senate; (8) Hon. William A. Newell, New Jersey.
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William Allen, D.D., born 1784, died 1868. Graduated at Harvard, 1802. President Dartmouth College, 1816-1819, Bowdoin College, 1820-1839. He was the father of American Biography, published various volumes of poems; as a philologist, he contributed many thousands of words and definitions to Webster and Worcester's dictionaries. He was leader of the American delegation to the National Peace Congress at Versailles in 1849.
Lincoln! thy country's father, hail!We bid thee welcome, but bewail;Welcome unto thy chosenhome—Triumphant, glorious, dost thou come.
Lincoln! thy country's father, hail!
We bid thee welcome, but bewail;
Welcome unto thy chosenhome—
Triumphant, glorious, dost thou come.
Before the enemy struck the blowThat laid thee in a moment low,God gave thy wish: It was to seeOur Union safe, our country free.
Before the enemy struck the blow
That laid thee in a moment low,
God gave thy wish: It was to see
Our Union safe, our country free.
A country where the gospel truthShall reach the hearts of age and youth,And move unchained, in majesty,A model land of liberty!
A country where the gospel truth
Shall reach the hearts of age and youth,
And move unchained, in majesty,
A model land of liberty!
When Jacob's bones, from Egypt borne,Regained their home, the people mourn;Great mourning then at Ephron's cave,Both Abraham's and Isaac's grave.
When Jacob's bones, from Egypt borne,
Regained their home, the people mourn;
Great mourning then at Ephron's cave,
Both Abraham's and Isaac's grave.
Far greater is the mourning now;For our land one emblem wide of woe;And where thy coffin car appearsDo not the people throng in tears?
Far greater is the mourning now;
For our land one emblem wide of woe;
And where thy coffin car appears
Do not the people throng in tears?
topThy triumph of a thousand miles,Like eastern conqueror with hisspoils—A million hearts thy captives led,All weeping for their chieftain dead.
Thy triumph of a thousand miles,
Like eastern conqueror with hisspoils—
A million hearts thy captives led,
All weeping for their chieftain dead.
Thy chariot, moved with eagle speedWithout the aid of prancing steed,Has brought thee to that destined tomb;Springfield, thy home, will give thee room.
Thy chariot, moved with eagle speed
Without the aid of prancing steed,
Has brought thee to that destined tomb;
Springfield, thy home, will give thee room.
Lincoln, the martyr, welcome home!What lessons blossom on thy tomb!In God's pure truth and law delight;With firm, unwavering soul do right.
Lincoln, the martyr, welcome home!
What lessons blossom on thy tomb!
In God's pure truth and law delight;
With firm, unwavering soul do right.
Be condescending, kind and just;In God's wise counsels put thy trust;Let no proud soul e'er dare rebel,Moved by vile passions sprung from hell.
Be condescending, kind and just;
In God's wise counsels put thy trust;
Let no proud soul e'er dare rebel,
Moved by vile passions sprung from hell.
Come, sleep with us in sweet repose,Till we, as Christ from death arose,Still in His glorious image riseTo dwell with him beyond the skies.
Come, sleep with us in sweet repose,
Till we, as Christ from death arose,
Still in His glorious image rise
To dwell with him beyond the skies.
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STATE CAPITOL, ILLINOIS, 1865
Thebody of the President lay in state in the Capitol, Springfield, Illinois—which was very richly draped—from May 3 to May 4, when it was removed to Oak Ridge Cemetery.
Lucy Hamilton Hooper, born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, January 20, 1835. In conjunction with Charles G. Leland she editedOur Daily Fare,the daily chronicle of the Philadelphia Sanitary Fair in 1864. She was assistant editor ofLippincott's Magazinefrom its foundation until she went to Europe in 1870. In 1874 she settled in Paris and since has been correspondent for various journals in this country. She has publishedPoems, with Translations from the German(Philadelphia, 1864), another volume ofPoems(1871); a translation ofLe Nabob,by Alphonse Daudet (Boston, 1879); andUnder the Tricolor,a novel (Philadelphia, 1880). She died August 31, 1893.
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Thereis a shadow on the sunny air,There is a darkness o'er the April day,We bow our heads beneath this awful cloudSo sudden come, and not to pass away.
Thereis a shadow on the sunny air,
There is a darkness o'er the April day,
We bow our heads beneath this awful cloud
So sudden come, and not to pass away.
O the wild grief that sweeps across our landFrom frozen Maine to Californian shore!A people's tears, an orphaned nation's wail,For him the good, the great, who is no more.
O the wild grief that sweeps across our land
From frozen Maine to Californian shore!
A people's tears, an orphaned nation's wail,
For him the good, the great, who is no more.
The noblest brain that ever toiled for man,The kindest heart that ever thrilled a breast,The lofty soul unstained by soil of earth,Sent by a traitor to a martyr's rest.
The noblest brain that ever toiled for man,
The kindest heart that ever thrilled a breast,
The lofty soul unstained by soil of earth,
Sent by a traitor to a martyr's rest.
And his last act (O gentle, kindly heart!)The noble prompting of unselfish grace.He would not disappoint the waiting crowdWho came to gaze upon his honored face.
And his last act (O gentle, kindly heart!)
The noble prompting of unselfish grace.
He would not disappoint the waiting crowd
Who came to gaze upon his honored face.
O God, thy ways are just, and yet we findThis dispensation hard to understand.Why must our Prophet's weary feet be stay'dUpon the borders of the Promised Land?
O God, thy ways are just, and yet we find
This dispensation hard to understand.
Why must our Prophet's weary feet be stay'd
Upon the borders of the Promised Land?
He bore the heat, the burden of the day,The golden eventide he shall not see;He shall not see the old flag wave againOver a land united, saved, and free.
He bore the heat, the burden of the day,
The golden eventide he shall not see;
He shall not see the old flag wave again
Over a land united, saved, and free.
He loved his people, and he ever lentTo all our griefs a sympathizing ear;Now for the first time in these four sad yearsThe stricken nation wails—he does not hear.top
He loved his people, and he ever lent
To all our griefs a sympathizing ear;
Now for the first time in these four sad years
The stricken nation wails—he does not hear.
O never wept a land a nobler Chief!Kind heart, strong hand, true soul—yet, while we weepLet us remember, e'en amid our tears,'Tis God who gives to his beloved sleep.
O never wept a land a nobler Chief!
Kind heart, strong hand, true soul—yet, while we weep
Let us remember, e'en amid our tears,
'Tis God who gives to his beloved sleep.
So sleeps he now, the chosen man of God,No more shall care or sorrow wring his breast;The weary one and heavy laden, liesHushed by the voice of God to endless rest.
So sleeps he now, the chosen man of God,
No more shall care or sorrow wring his breast;
The weary one and heavy laden, lies
Hushed by the voice of God to endless rest.
We need no solemn knell, no tolling bells,No chanted dirge, no vain words sadly said.The saddest knell that ever stirred the airRang in those words, "Our President is dead!"
We need no solemn knell, no tolling bells,
No chanted dirge, no vain words sadly said.
The saddest knell that ever stirred the air
Rang in those words, "Our President is dead!"
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PUBLIC VAULT, OAK RIDGE CEMETERY, SPRINGFIELD, ILL.,On the day of Lincoln's funeral
Theremains of President Lincoln were deposited in this receiving vault of Oak Ridge Cemetery, Springfield, Illinois, on the 4th of May, 1865, where they remained until December 21, 1865, when they were removed to a temporary vault near the site of the public one. On September 19, 1871, the remains were removed to the monument which had been erected and which stands on the top of the hill in that cemetery back of the public vault. The remains of Mrs. Lincoln, Willie and Thomas (Tad), are also resting there.
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By James M. Stewart
Letthe President sleep! all his duty is done,He has lived for our glory, the triumph is won;At the close of the fight, like a warrior brave,He retires from the field to the rest of the grave.Hush the roll of the drum, hush the cannon's loud roar,He will guide us to peace through the battle no more;But new freedom shall dawn from the place of his rest,Where the star has gone down in the beautiful West.Tread lightly, breathe softly, and gratefully bringTo the sod that enfolds him the first flowers of spring;They will tenderly treasure the tears that we weepO'er the grave of our chief—let the President sleep.
Letthe President sleep! all his duty is done,
He has lived for our glory, the triumph is won;
At the close of the fight, like a warrior brave,
He retires from the field to the rest of the grave.
Hush the roll of the drum, hush the cannon's loud roar,
He will guide us to peace through the battle no more;
But new freedom shall dawn from the place of his rest,
Where the star has gone down in the beautiful West.
Tread lightly, breathe softly, and gratefully bring
To the sod that enfolds him the first flowers of spring;
They will tenderly treasure the tears that we weep
O'er the grave of our chief—let the President sleep.
Let the President sleep—tears will hallow the ground,Where we raise o'er his ashes the sheltering mound,And his spirit will sometimes return from above,There to mingle with ours in ineffable love.Peace to thee, noble dead, thou hast battled for right,And hast won high reward from the Father of Light;Peace to thee, martyr-hero, and sweet be thy rest,Where the sunlight fades out in the beautiful West.Tread lightly, breathe softly, and gratefully bringTo the sod that enfolds him the first flowers of spring;They will tenderly treasure the tears that we weepO'er the grave of our chief—let the President sleep!
Let the President sleep—tears will hallow the ground,
Where we raise o'er his ashes the sheltering mound,
And his spirit will sometimes return from above,
There to mingle with ours in ineffable love.
Peace to thee, noble dead, thou hast battled for right,
And hast won high reward from the Father of Light;
Peace to thee, martyr-hero, and sweet be thy rest,
Where the sunlight fades out in the beautiful West.
Tread lightly, breathe softly, and gratefully bring
To the sod that enfolds him the first flowers of spring;
They will tenderly treasure the tears that we weep
O'er the grave of our chief—let the President sleep!
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FACADE OF PUBLIC VAULTOak Ridge Cemetery, Springfield, Illinois, in which the body of Lincoln was placed, May 4, 1865
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James Mackay, born in New York, April 8, 1872. Author ofThe Economy of Happiness,The Politics of Utility,and of various lectures on Scientific Ethics, etc.
Andso they buried Lincoln? Strange and vainHas any creature thought of Lincoln hidIn any vault 'neath any coffin lid,In all the years since that wild spring of pain?'Tis false—he never in the grave hath lain.You could not bury him although you slidUpon his clay the Cheops Pyramid,Or heaped it with the Rocky Mountain chain.They slew themselves;—they but set Lincoln free.In all the earth his great heart beats as strong,Shall beat while pulses throb to chivalry,And burn with hate of tyranny and wrong.Whoever will may find him, anywhereSave in the tomb. Not there—he is not there.
Andso they buried Lincoln? Strange and vain
Has any creature thought of Lincoln hid
In any vault 'neath any coffin lid,
In all the years since that wild spring of pain?
'Tis false—he never in the grave hath lain.
You could not bury him although you slid
Upon his clay the Cheops Pyramid,
Or heaped it with the Rocky Mountain chain.
They slew themselves;—they but set Lincoln free.
In all the earth his great heart beats as strong,
Shall beat while pulses throb to chivalry,
And burn with hate of tyranny and wrong.
Whoever will may find him, anywhere
Save in the tomb. Not there—he is not there.
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LINCOLN MONUMENTSpringfield, Illinois, Larken G. Mead, Architect
A movementwas started shortly after the burial of Lincoln to raise funds sufficient to build a monument over his grave. Contributions were made by various States and societies, and about sixty thousand Sunday-school scholars contributed the sum of eighteen thousand dollars. Ground was broken on the 9th of September, 1869, and the monument was dedicated on the 15th of October, 1874, at a total cost of two hundred and thirty thousand dollars.
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James Judson Lord, born at Berwick, Maine, in 1821. He had the advantage of an excellent early education followed by years of research. During his preparatory studies at Cambridge he met Longfellow, who loaned him books from his own library. For a time he studied art under prominent masters, but his health failing, after a time of forced leisure he went into the mercantile business in Boston, which vocation he afterward followed. In 1851 he went to Illinois; finally, after his marriage, settling in Springfield. There he knew Mr. Lincoln, with whom he was on terms of closest friendship.
The poem submitted by Mr. Lord was selected for reading at the dedication of the National Lincoln Monument in a competition which brought contributions from many leading poets.
He was the author of several dramas, and from time to time contributed poems to leading magazines and newspapers of the country. He died January 3, 1905.
Read by Richard Edwards, LL.D., President Illinois State Normal University at Bloomington, Illinois
Webuild not here a temple or a shrine,Nor hero-fane to demigods divine;Nor to the clouds a superstructure rearFor man's ambition or for servile fear.Not to the Dust, but to the Deeds aloneA grateful people raise th' historic stone;For where a patriot lived, or hero fell,The daisied turf would mark the spot as well.
Webuild not here a temple or a shrine,
Nor hero-fane to demigods divine;
Nor to the clouds a superstructure rear
For man's ambition or for servile fear.
Not to the Dust, but to the Deeds alone
A grateful people raise th' historic stone;
For where a patriot lived, or hero fell,
The daisied turf would mark the spot as well.
What though the Pyramids, with apex high,Like Alpine peaks cleave Egypt's rainless sky,And cast grim shadows o'er a desert landtopForever blighted by oppression's hand?No patriot zeal their deep foundationslaid—No freeman's hand their darken'd chambersmade—No public weal inspired the heart with love,To see their summits towering high above.The ruling Pharaoh, proud and gory-stained,With vain ambitions never yetattained;—With brow enclouded as his marble throne,And heart unyielding as the buildingstone;—Sought with the scourge to make mankind his slaves,And heaven's free sunlight darker than their graves.His but to will, and theirs to yield and feel,Like vermin'd dust beneath his ironheel;—Denies all mercy, and all right offends,Till on his head th' avenging Plague descends.
What though the Pyramids, with apex high,
Like Alpine peaks cleave Egypt's rainless sky,
And cast grim shadows o'er a desert land
Forever blighted by oppression's hand?
No patriot zeal their deep foundationslaid—
No freeman's hand their darken'd chambersmade—
No public weal inspired the heart with love,
To see their summits towering high above.
The ruling Pharaoh, proud and gory-stained,
With vain ambitions never yetattained;—
With brow enclouded as his marble throne,
And heart unyielding as the buildingstone;—
Sought with the scourge to make mankind his slaves,
And heaven's free sunlight darker than their graves.
His but to will, and theirs to yield and feel,
Like vermin'd dust beneath his ironheel;—
Denies all mercy, and all right offends,
Till on his head th' avenging Plague descends.
Historic justice bids the nations knowThat through each land of slaves a Nile of blood shall flow:And Vendome Columns, on a people thrust,Are, by the people, level'd with the dust.
Historic justice bids the nations know
That through each land of slaves a Nile of blood shall flow:
And Vendome Columns, on a people thrust,
Are, by the people, level'd with the dust.
Nor stone, nor bronze, can fit memorials yieldFor deeds of valor on the bloody field,'Neath war's dark clouds the sturdy volunteer,By freedom taught his country to revere,Bids home and friends a hasty, sad adieu,And treads where dangers all his steps pursue;Finds cold and famine on his dauntless way,And with mute patience brooks the long delay,Or hears the trumpet, or the thrilling drumPeal the long roll that calls: "They come! they come!"Then to the front with battling hosts he flies,And lives to triumph, or for freedom dies.Thund'ring amain along the rocky strand,The Ocean claims her honors with the Land.topLoud on the gale she chimes the wild refrain,Or with low murmur wails her heroes slain!In gory hulks, with splinter'd mast and spar,Rocks on her stormy breast the valiantTar:—Lash'd to the mast he gives the high command,Or midst the fight, sinks with theCumberland.
Nor stone, nor bronze, can fit memorials yield
For deeds of valor on the bloody field,
'Neath war's dark clouds the sturdy volunteer,
By freedom taught his country to revere,
Bids home and friends a hasty, sad adieu,
And treads where dangers all his steps pursue;
Finds cold and famine on his dauntless way,
And with mute patience brooks the long delay,
Or hears the trumpet, or the thrilling drum
Peal the long roll that calls: "They come! they come!"
Then to the front with battling hosts he flies,
And lives to triumph, or for freedom dies.
Thund'ring amain along the rocky strand,
The Ocean claims her honors with the Land.
Loud on the gale she chimes the wild refrain,
Or with low murmur wails her heroes slain!
In gory hulks, with splinter'd mast and spar,
Rocks on her stormy breast the valiantTar:—
Lash'd to the mast he gives the high command,
Or midst the fight, sinks with theCumberland.
Beloved banner of the azure sky,Thy rightful home where'er thy eagles fly;On thy blue field the stars of heav'n descend,And to our day a purer luster lend.O, Righteous God! who guard'st the right alway,And bade Thy peace to come, "and come to stay":And while war's deluge fill'd the land with blood,With bow of promise arch'd the crimsonflood,—From fratricidal strife our banner screen,And let it float henceforth in skies serene.
Beloved banner of the azure sky,
Thy rightful home where'er thy eagles fly;
On thy blue field the stars of heav'n descend,
And to our day a purer luster lend.
O, Righteous God! who guard'st the right alway,
And bade Thy peace to come, "and come to stay":
And while war's deluge fill'd the land with blood,
With bow of promise arch'd the crimsonflood,—
From fratricidal strife our banner screen,
And let it float henceforth in skies serene.
Yet cunning art shall here her triumphs bring,And laurel'd bards their choicest anthems sing.Here, honor'd age shall bare its wintery brow,And youth to freedom make a Spartan vow.Here, ripened manhood from its walks profound,Shall come and halt, as if on hallow'd ground.
Yet cunning art shall here her triumphs bring,
And laurel'd bards their choicest anthems sing.
Here, honor'd age shall bare its wintery brow,
And youth to freedom make a Spartan vow.
Here, ripened manhood from its walks profound,
Shall come and halt, as if on hallow'd ground.
Here shall the urn with fragrant wreaths be drest,By tender hands the flow'ry tributes prest;And wending westward, from oppressions far,Shall pilgrims come, led by our freedom-star;While bending lowly, as o'er friendly pall,The silent tear from ebon cheeks shall fall.
Here shall the urn with fragrant wreaths be drest,
By tender hands the flow'ry tributes prest;
And wending westward, from oppressions far,
Shall pilgrims come, led by our freedom-star;
While bending lowly, as o'er friendly pall,
The silent tear from ebon cheeks shall fall.
Sterile and vain the tributes which wepay—It is the Past that consecrates todayThe spot where rests one of the noble fewWho saw the right, and dared the right to do.topTrue to himself and to his fellow men,With patient hand he moved the potent pen,Whose inky stream did, like the Red Sea's flow,Such bondage break and such a host o'erthrow!The simple parchment on its fleeting pageBespeaks the import of the betterage,—When man, for man, no more shall forge the chain,Nor armies tread the shore, nor navies plow the main.Then shall this boon to human freedom givenBe fitly deem'd a sacred gift ofheaven;—Though of the earth, it is no lessdivine,—Founded on truth it will forever shine,Reflecting rays from heaven's unchangingplan—The law of right and brotherhood of man.
Sterile and vain the tributes which wepay—
It is the Past that consecrates today
The spot where rests one of the noble few
Who saw the right, and dared the right to do.
True to himself and to his fellow men,
With patient hand he moved the potent pen,
Whose inky stream did, like the Red Sea's flow,
Such bondage break and such a host o'erthrow!
The simple parchment on its fleeting page
Bespeaks the import of the betterage,—
When man, for man, no more shall forge the chain,
Nor armies tread the shore, nor navies plow the main.
Then shall this boon to human freedom given
Be fitly deem'd a sacred gift ofheaven;—
Though of the earth, it is no lessdivine,—
Founded on truth it will forever shine,
Reflecting rays from heaven's unchangingplan—
The law of right and brotherhood of man.
Edna Dean Proctor, born in Henniker, New Hampshire, October 10, 1838. She received her early education in Concord and subsequently removed to Brooklyn, New York. She contributed largely to magazine literature and has traveled extensively abroad. Of all her poemsBy the Shenandoahis probably the most popular.
Nowmust the storied PotomacLaurels forever divide;Now to the Sangamon famelessGive of its century's pride.Sangamon, stream of the prairies,Placidly westward that flows,Far in whose city of silenceCalm he has sought his repose.Over our Washington's riverSunrise beams rosy and fair;topSunset on Sangamonfairer,—Father and martyr lies there.
Nowmust the storied Potomac
Laurels forever divide;
Now to the Sangamon fameless
Give of its century's pride.
Sangamon, stream of the prairies,
Placidly westward that flows,
Far in whose city of silence
Calm he has sought his repose.
Over our Washington's river
Sunrise beams rosy and fair;
Sunset on Sangamonfairer,—
Father and martyr lies there.
Break into blossom, O prairie!Snowy and golden and red;Peers of the Palestine liliesHeap for your Glorious Dead!Roses as fair as of Sharon,Branches as stately as palm,Odors as rich as thespices—Cassia and aloes andbalm—Mary the loved and Salome,All with a gracious accord,Ere the first glow of the morningBrought to the tomb of the Lord.
Break into blossom, O prairie!
Snowy and golden and red;
Peers of the Palestine lilies
Heap for your Glorious Dead!
Roses as fair as of Sharon,
Branches as stately as palm,
Odors as rich as thespices—
Cassia and aloes andbalm—
Mary the loved and Salome,
All with a gracious accord,
Ere the first glow of the morning
Brought to the tomb of the Lord.
Not for thy sheaves nor savannasCrown we thee, proud Illinois!Here in his grave is thy grandeur;Born of his sorrow thy joy.Only the tomb by Mount Zion,Hewn for the Lord, do we holdDearer than his in thy prairies,Girdled with harvests of gold!Still for the world through the agesWreathing with glory his brow,He shall be Liberty's Saviour;Freedom's Jerusalem thou!
Not for thy sheaves nor savannas
Crown we thee, proud Illinois!
Here in his grave is thy grandeur;
Born of his sorrow thy joy.
Only the tomb by Mount Zion,
Hewn for the Lord, do we hold
Dearer than his in thy prairies,
Girdled with harvests of gold!
Still for the world through the ages
Wreathing with glory his brow,
He shall be Liberty's Saviour;
Freedom's Jerusalem thou!
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STATUE OF LINCOLNIn Lincoln Park, Washington, D. C. Thomas Ball, sculptor.
Thefirst contribution of five dollars for the statue in Lincoln Park, Washington, D. C., was made by a colored woman named Charlotte Scott, of Marietta, Ohio, the morning after the assassination of President Lincoln, and the entire cost of said monument, amounting to $17,000, was paid by subscriptions of colored people. It was unveiled April 14, 1876.
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James Russell Lowell, born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, February 22, 1819. He received his degree in 1838, at Harvard, and his first production was a class poem which was delivered on that date. He was successor of Professor Longfellow in the chair of Modern Languages at Harvard College. In 1877 he was appointed by President Hayes to the Spanish Mission, from which he was transferred in 1880 to the Court of St. James. A long list of poetical works have been published to his credit. He died August 12, 1891.
Lifemay be given in many ways,And loyalty to Truth be sealedAs bravely in the closet as the field,So bountiful 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 measures of a stalwart man,Limbed like the old heroic breeds,Who stand self-poised on manhood's solid earth;Not forced to frame excuses for his birth,Fed from within with all the strength he needs.
Lifemay be given in many ways,
And loyalty to Truth be sealed
As bravely in the closet as the field,
So bountiful 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 plan
And measures of a stalwart man,
Limbed like the old heroic breeds,
Who stand 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.topNature, they say, doth dote,And cannot make a manSave on some worn-out plan,Repeating us by rote:For him her Old World molds aside she threw,And, choosing sweet clay from the breastOf the unexhausted West,
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 turn
To 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 man
Save on some worn-out plan,
Repeating us by rote:
For him her Old World molds aside she threw,
And, choosing sweet clay from the breast
Of 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!
With stuff untainted shaped a hero new,
Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true.
How beautiful to see
Once 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 trust
In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill,
And supple-tempered will
That 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 sea-mark 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 or 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.
His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind,
Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars,
A sea-mark 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 or Peer
Could 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.
topI 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 his 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.
I praise him not; it were too late;
And some innative weakness there must be
In him who condescends to victory
Such as the present gives, and cannot wait,
Safe in himself as in a fate.
So always firmly he;
He knew to bide his 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.
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STATUE OF LINCOLNBy Leonard W. Volk
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Richard Henry Stoddard, born in Hingham, Massachusetts, July 2, 1825. His first book, entitledFoot Prints,was published in 1849, and some three years after a more mature collection of poems was published. In later years a number of his books were published, all of which have been received with approbation by the public. Died May 12, 1903.
(To Lincoln)
Notas when some great captain fallsIn battle, where his country calls,Beyond the struggling linesThat push his dread designs
Notas when some great captain falls
In battle, where his country calls,
Beyond the struggling lines
That push his dread designs
To doom, by some stray ball struck dead:Or in the last charge, at the headOf his determined men,Who must be victors then!
To doom, by some stray ball struck dead:
Or in the last charge, at the head
Of his determined men,
Who must be victors then!
Nor as when sink the civic great,The safer pillars of the State,Whose calm, mature, wise wordsSuppress the need of swords!
Nor as when sink the civic great,
The safer pillars of the State,
Whose calm, mature, wise words
Suppress the need of swords!
With no such tears as e'er were shedAbove the noblest of our deadDo we today deploreThe man that is no more.
With no such tears as e'er were shed
Above the noblest of our dead
Do we today deplore
The man that is no more.
Our sorrow hath a wider scope,Too strange for fear, too vast forhope,—A wonder, blind and dumb,That waits—what is to come!top
Our sorrow hath a wider scope,
Too strange for fear, too vast forhope,—
A wonder, blind and dumb,
That waits—what is to come!
Not more astonished had we beenIf madness, that dark night, unseen,Had in our chambers crept,And murdered while we slept!
Not more astonished had we been
If madness, that dark night, unseen,
Had in our chambers crept,
And murdered while we slept!
We woke to find a mourningearth—Our Lares shivered on thehearth,—To roof-tree fallen—allThat could affright, appall!
We woke to find a mourningearth—
Our Lares shivered on thehearth,—
To roof-tree fallen—all
That could affright, appall!
Such thunderbolts, in other lands,Have smitten the rod from royal hands,But spared, with us, till now,Each laureled Caesar's brow.
Such thunderbolts, in other lands,
Have smitten the rod from royal hands,
But spared, with us, till now,
Each laureled Caesar's brow.
No Caesar he, whom we lament,A man without a precedent,Sent it would seem, to doHis work—and perish too!
No Caesar he, whom we lament,
A man without a precedent,
Sent it would seem, to do
His work—and perish too!
Not by the weary cares of state,The endless tasks, which will not wait,Which, often done in vain,Must yet be done again;
Not by the weary cares of state,
The endless tasks, which will not wait,
Which, often done in vain,
Must yet be done again;
Not in the dark, wild tide of war,Which rose so high, and rolled so far,Sweeping from sea to seaIn awfulanarchy;—
Not in the dark, wild tide of war,
Which rose so high, and rolled so far,
Sweeping from sea to sea
In awfulanarchy;—
Four fateful years of mortal strife,Which slowly drained the Nation's life,(Yet, for each drop that ranThere sprang an armed man!)top
Four fateful years of mortal strife,
Which slowly drained the Nation's life,
(Yet, for each drop that ran
There sprang an armed man!)
Not then;—but when by measuresmeet—By victory, and by defeat,By courage, patience, skill,The people's fixed "We will!"
Not then;—but when by measuresmeet—
By victory, and by defeat,
By courage, patience, skill,
The people's fixed "We will!"
Had pierced, had crushed rebelliondead—Without a hand, without ahead:—At last, when all was well,He fell—O, how he fell!
Had pierced, had crushed rebelliondead—
Without a hand, without ahead:—
At last, when all was well,
He fell—O, how he fell!
Tyrants have fallen by such as thou,And good hath followed,—may it now!(God lets bad instrumentsProduce the best events.)
Tyrants have fallen by such as thou,
And good hath followed,—may it now!
(God lets bad instruments
Produce the best events.)
But he, the man we mourn today,No tyrant was; so mild a swayIn one such weight who boreWas never known before!
But he, the man we mourn today,
No tyrant was; so mild a sway
In one such weight who bore
Was never known before!
From "Poems of Richard Henry Stoddard"Copyright, 1880, by Charles Scribner's Sons.
From "Poems of Richard Henry Stoddard"
Copyright, 1880, by Charles Scribner's Sons.
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