FORD'S THEATREThebuilding is a plain brick structure, three stories high, seventy-one feet front and one hundred feet deep. It was originally constructed and occupied as a Baptist Church, but at the beginning of the war was converted into a theatre, though never used for that purpose after the assassination of Lincoln. The government purchased it for one hundred thousand dollars, and it is now used as a branch of the Record and Pension Division of the War Department. President Lincoln was shot by J. Wilkes Booth at 10.20 o'clockP.M.on the evening of April 14, 1865, while seated in his private box in the theatre.topSIC SEMPER TYRANNIS!By Robert Leighton“Sicsemper tyrannis!" the assassin cried,As Lincoln fell. O villain! who than heMore lived to set both slave and tyrant free?Or so enrapt with plans of freedom died,That even thy treacherous deed shall glance asideAnd do the dead man's will by land and sea;Win bloodless battles, and make that to beWhich to his living mandate was denied!Peace to that gentle heart! The peace he soughtFor all mankind, nor for it dies in vain.Rest to the uncrowned king, who, toiling, broughtHis bleeding country through that dreadful reign;Who, living, earned a world's revering thought,And, dying, leaves his name without a stain.Liverpool, England,May 5, 1865topABRAHAM LINCOLNFoully assassinated, April 14, 1865Tom Taylorwrote the following poem, which appeared in theLondon Punch,May 6, 1865. The engraving is a facsimile of the one published in the paper at the head of the poem.topABRAHAM LINCOLN, FOULLY ASSASSINATEDYoulay a wreath on murderedLincoln'sbier,You,who with mocking pencil wont to trace,Broad for self-complacent British sneer,His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face,His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair,His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease,His lack of all we prize as debonair,Of power or will to shine, of art to please,You,whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh,Judging each step, as though the way were plain:Reckless, so it could point its paragraph,Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain.Beside this corpse, that bears for winding sheetThe Stars and Stripes, he lived to rear anew,Between the mourners at his head and feet,Say, scurrile-jester, is there room foryou?Yes, he had lived to shame me from my sneer,To lame my pencil, and confute mypen—To make me own this hind of princes peer,This rail-splitter a true-born king of men.My shallow judgment I had learnt to rue,Noting how to occasion's height he rose,How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true,How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows.topHow humble, yet how hopeful he could be;How in good fortune and in ill the same;Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he,Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame.He went about his work—such work as fewEver had laid on head and heart andhand—As one who knows, where there's a task to do,Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command.Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow,That God makes instruments to work His will,If but that will we can arrive to know,Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill.So he went forth to battle, on the sideThat he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's,As in his peasant boyhood he had pliedHis warfare with rude Nature's thwartingmights—The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil,The iron-bark that turned the lumberer's axe,The rapid, that o'erbears the boatmen's toil,The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks,The ambushed Indian, and the prowlingbear—Such were the needs that helped his youth to train;Rough culture—but such trees large fruit may bear,If but their stocks be of right girth and grain.So he grew up, a destined work to do,And lived to do it—four long-suffering years;Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through,And then he heard the hisses change to cheers,topThe taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise,And took both with the same unwavering mood;Till, as he came on light from darking days,And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood,A felon hand, between the goal and him,Reached from behind his back, a triggerprest,—And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim,Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest!The words of mercy were upon his lips,Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen,When this vile murderer brought swift eclipseTo thoughts of peace on earth, good will to men.The Old World and the New, from sea to sea,Utter one voice of sympathy and shame!Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high,Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came.A deed accurst! Strokes have been struck beforeBy the assassin's hand, whereof men doubtIf more of horror or disgrace they bore;But thy foul crime, like CAIN'S stands darkly out.Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife,Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven;And with the martyr's crown crownest a lifeWith much to praise, little to be forgiven!topDEATHBED OF LINCOLNImmediatelyafter the President was shot in Ford's Theatre he was carried across the street to the house of William Petersen and placed on a single bed in a room at the end of the hall. All through that weary night the watchers stood by the bedside. He was unconscious every moment from the time the bullet entered his head until Dr. Robert King Stone, the family physician, announced at twenty-two minutes after seven on the following morning that he had breathed his last (April 15, 1865). Upon this Secretary Edwin M. Stanton, Secretary of War, in a low voice said: "Now He Belongs to the Ages."topTHE DEATHBEDSilencefalls, unbroken save by sobs of strong menIn that room, where Lincoln, at the morning hour's chimePassed out into the unknown from the world of human ken.Gone his body and his life work from the world inclosed by time;But in the silence that was falling after breath of broken prayer,Words eternal broke the quiet like a bell toll on the air;Never in the world's wide story, wiser spoke nor Prophet, spoke nor Sages,Than these words that broke the silence: "He belongs now to the Ages!""To the Ages!" well you spoke it, Stanton of the massive mind!He belongs, the years have shown it, to the world of human kind!Heard his story, where'er hearts throb o'er the world's far spreading way;Heard his story, children listen at the closing of the day;Heard his story, lovers speak it in their hushed and saddened tonesAs they wander in the twilight, dreaming of their coming homes;Heard his story, statesmen tell it, with a thrill of pride and truth;Heard his story, old men speak it to the country's growing youth.And the years have shown the Prophets, and the years have shown the Sages;Writ in fire these words of wisdom, "He belongs now to the Ages!"topABRAHAM LINCOLN, PresidentABRAHAM LINCOLNPresidentEDWIN M. STANTON, Secretary of WarEDWIN M. STANTONSecretary of WarMarion Mills Millerwas born at Eaton, Ohio, February 27, 1864. He was graduated from Princeton in 1886, and for several years thereafter was an instructor there in the English department. In 1889 he received the degree of Doctor of Literature from his Alma Mater. Since 1893 he has been engaged in literary and social reform work in New York City. He has published some verse and fiction, but his most notable work has been in the fields of translation and history. He has editedThe Classics—Greek and Latin(15 volumes), published in 1909, andGreat Debates in American History(14 volumes), published in 1913.In 1907 he edited the Centenary Edition ofThe Life and Works of Abraham Lincolnin 10 volumes, logically arranged for ready reference. TheLife of Lincolnwas published separately in 1908 in two volumes. It is based on a manuscript by Henry C. Whitney, whose name it bears as author, although the second volume,Lincoln, the President,was largely written by Dr. Miller. The late Major William H. Lambert, presidenttopof the Lincoln Fellowship, called it "the best of the shorter biographies of Lincoln." Dr. Miller has also editedThe Wisdom of Lincoln(1908), a small book of extracts from Lincoln's speeches and writings. He wrote the following poem, "Lincoln and Stanton," especially forThe Poets' Lincoln.The first reference in it is to the Manny-McCormick case over the patent rights of the reaping machine, in which Lincoln had been at first selected as principal pleader, but was superseded by Edwin M. Stanton. Having thoroughly prepared himself, he offered his assistance to Stanton, but was brusquely repulsed. He was so hurt that he felt like leaving the court room, but decided, in loyalty to his client, to remain, and, leaving his place among counsel, took a seat in the audience. Despite his injured feelings he was filled with admiration for Stanton's able and successful conduct of the case. Lincoln, probably referring to a slur of Stanton reported to him, said that he would have to go back to Illinois and "study more law," since the "college-bred" lawyers were pushing hard the "cornfield" ones.The second reference is to Stanton's criticism of Lincoln's conservative course during the first months of his Presidency; "that imbecile at the White House," he called him. Stanton as Attorney-General at the close of Buchanan's administration had done effective work in foiling the plans of the Confederacy, and he believed in forceful measures to put down the rebellion in its incipiency.The third reference is to the virtually enforced resignation of Simon Cameron, Lincoln's first Secretary of War, and Lincoln's choice to succeed him of Stanton, whom he realized to be the best equipped man in the country for the place.The fourth reference is to Stanton's remark by the bedside of Lincoln as the stricken President ceased breathing: "There lies the greatest leader of men the world ever saw."topLINCOLN AND STANTONLincolnhad cause one man alone to hate:A fellow-lawyer, lacking in all grace,Who cast uncalled-for insult in his faceWhen Lincoln as his colleague, with innateCourtesy, proffered aid. With pride inflateThe scornful Stanton waved him to his place,Snapping, "I need no help to try this case";And "cornfield lawyer" muttered of his mate.And when, as captain of the Union ship,Lincoln drew sail before the gathering stormTill favoring winds the shrouds unfurled should fill,Stanton again curled his contemptuous lipAnd, with the impatience of a patriot warm,Sneered at the helmsman, "craven imbecile."Laid was the course at length; the sails untriedWere spread; the raw crew set at spar and coil.Now round the prow Charybdean waters boilAnd ever higher surges war's red tide.The mate who should the captain's care divideHas strengthless proved. Where shall, the foe to foil,A man be found able to bear the toilAnd stand, to steer the ship, by Lincoln's side?Stanton he called! The bitter choice he madeFor country, not himself. The ship was drivenBy the great twain through war's abyss, againInto calm seas. Then Lincoln low was laid,And Stanton paid him highest tribute givenTo mortal: "Mightiest leader among men!"topTHE DEATH OF LINCOLN1 President Lincoln. 2 Hon. Gideon Welles, Secretary of the Navy. 3 John Hay, Esq., President's Private Secretary. 4 Hon. E. M. Stanton, Secretary of War. 5 Rev. Dr. Gurley. 6 Gen. Farnsworth, M. C. from Illinois. 7 Governor Ogilsby of Illinois. 8 General Todd. 9 Rufus Andrews, Esq. 10 Hon. W. T. Otto, Assistant Secretary of the Interior. 11 Hon. W. Denison, Postmaster-General. 12 Judge D. K. Carter. 13 Major-General Halleck. 14 Captain Robert Lincoln. 15 Dr. Leale. 16 Hon. Charles Sumner. 17 Dr. Crane, Assistant Surgeon-General. 18 Governor Farwell, of Wisconsin. 19 Hon. J. P. Usher, Secretary of the Interior. 20 Major-General Augur. 21 Major-General Meigs. 22 Maunsel B. Field, Esq. 23 Hon. Schuyler Colfax. 24 Hon. James Speed, Attorney-General. 25 Hon. H. McCullough, Secretary of the Treasury 26 Dr. R. K. Stone. 27 Surgeon-General Barnes.topHOUSE IN WHICH LINCOLN DIED, Washington, D. C.HOUSE IN WHICHLINCOLN DIEDWashington, D. C.JOSEPHINE OLDROYD TIEFENTHALER, Born July 17, 1896. Died February 20, 1908JOSEPHINE OLDROYD TIEFENTHALERBorn July 17, 1896.Died February 20, 1908topRobert Mackayand his wife visited this historic house in 1902. They were met at the door and escorted through the various rooms containing the Collection by Little Josephine, and were deeply impressed at the knowledge she exhibited of Lincoln and the Collection, although she was but six years of age. Mr. Mackay was born at Virginia City, Nevada, April 22, 1871. ReporterSan Francisco Chronicle,1886. Worked on newspapers as printer, reporter and editor until 1895, when he traveled extensively over the world for the International News Syndicate; joined staff of theNew York Worldin 1899; managing editor ofSuccess Magazine,1900-1908. Editor theDelineator,1908. Joined editorial department of the Frank A. Munsey Company in 1909, contributor of short stories, also other prose and verse.THE HOUSE WHERE LINCOLN DIEDAboveJudea's purple-mantled plain,There hovers still, among the ruins lone,The spirit of the Christ whose dying moanWas heard in heaven, and paid our debt in pain.As subtle perfume lingers with the rose,Even when its petals flutter to the earth,So clings the potent mystery of the birthOf that deep love from which all mercy flows.. . . .Within this house,—this room,—a martyr died,A prophet of a largerliberty,—A liberator setting bondmen free,A full-orbed MAN, above mere mortal pride.topThe cloud-rifts opening to celestial glades,Oft glimpse him, and his spirit lingers still,As Christ's sweet influence broods upon the hillWhere the red lily with the sunset fades.. . . .A little girl with eyes of heavenly blue,Sings through the old place, ignorant of all;Her angel face, her cheerful, birdlike callThrilling the heart to life more full, more true.IN TOKEN OF RESPECTTranslation from Latin versesFromhumble parentage and low degreeLincoln ascended to the highest rank;None ever had a harder task than he,It was perfected—him alone we thank.Did the assassin think to kill a name,Or hand his own down to posterity?One will wear the laurel wreath of fame,The other be condemned to infamy.Caesar was killed by Brutus,Yet Rome did not cease to be;Lincoln by Booth, and yet the slavesIn all America are free!Rieti, France, May, 1865topENGLAND'S SORROWFrom London FunThehand of an Assassin, glowing red,Shot like a firebrand through the western sky;And stalwart Abraham Lincoln now is dead!O! felon heart that thus could basely dyeThe name of southerner with murderous gore!Could such a spirit come from mortal womb?And what possessed it that not heretoforeIt linked its coward mission with the tomb?Lincoln! thy fame shall sound through many an age,To prove that genius lives in humble birth;Thy name shall sound upon historic page,For 'midst thy faults we all esteemed thy worth.Gone art thou now! no more 'midst angry heatShall thy calm spirit rule the surging tide,Which rolls where two contending nations meet,To still the passion and to curb the pride.Nations have looked and seen the fate of kings,Protectors, emperors, and such like men;Behold the man whose dirge all Europe sings,Now past the eulogy of mortal pen!He, like a lighthouse, fell athwart the strand;Let curses rest upon the assassin's hand.topTHE FUNERAL OF LINCOLNCeremonies in the East Room of the White House, April 19, 1865Atten minutes after twelve o'clock Rev. Charles H. Hall, of the Church of the Epiphany, opened the service by reading from the Episcopal Burial Service for the Dead. Bishop Matthew Simpson of the Methodist Church then offered prayer, and the Rev. Dr. Phineas D. Gurley, pastor of the New York Avenue Presbyterian Church, at which Mr. Lincoln and his family attended, delivered a sermon. The Rev. E. H. Gray, D.D., of the E Street Baptist Church, closed the solemn service with prayer.topPhineas Densmore Gurley, born at Hamilton, New York, 1816. Educated at Union College, Schenectady, New York. Taught during vacation, graduated 1837. Studied theology at the Theological Seminary, Princeton, New Jersey. Was licensed to preach in 1840. In 1840 he went to Indianapolis, Indiana, and took charge of a church. In 1849 he removed to Dayton, Ohio, taking charge of a church, and in 1853 moved to Washington, D. C., and took charge of a Presbyterian Church on F Street, afterwards Willard Hall. In 1858 was elected Chaplain of the United States Senate. In July, 1859, the Second Presbyterian Church and the F Street Church united, and were known as the New York Avenue Presbyterian Church, Dr. Gurley becoming its pastor from March, 1861, until his death. President Lincoln was a pew holder and a regular attendant, but was not a member. On one occasion the President remarked, "I like Dr. Gurley, he doesn't preach politics. I get enough of that during the week, and when I go to church I like to hear gospel."When the President was assassinated Dr. Gurley was sent for and remained with the President until he breathed his last.As soon as the spirit took its flight, Secretary Stanton turned to Dr. Gurley and said, "Doctor, will you say something?" After a brief pause, Dr. Gurley said, "Let us talk with God," and offered a touching prayer. Dr. Gurley died September 30, 1868.THE FUNERAL HYMN OF LINCOLNRest, noble martyr! rest in peace;Rest with the true and brave,Who, like thee, fell in freedom's cause,The nation's life to save.Thy name shall live while time endures,And men shall say of thee,"He saved his country from its foes,And bade the slave be free."topThese deeds shall be thy monument,Better than brass or stone;They leave thy fame in glory's light,Unrival'd and alone.This consecrated spot shall beTo freedom ever dear;And freedom's sons of every raceShall weep and worship here.O God! before whom we, in tears,Our fallen chief deplore,Grant that the cause for which he diedMay live forevermore.topHarrietMcEwen Kimball, born at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, November, 1834. Educated there; specially known as a religious poet, although she has written much secular verse; chief founder of the Portsmouth Cottage Hospital. Author hymns,Swallow Flights;Blessed Company of All Faithful People;Poems(complete edition), 1889.REST, REST FOR HIMRest, rest for him whose noble work is done;For him who led us gently, unaware,Till we were readier to do and dareFor Freedom, and her hundred fields were won.His march is ended where his march began;More sweet his sleep for toil and sacrifice,And that rare wisdom whose beginning liesIn fear of God, and charity for man;And sweetest for the tender faith that grewMore strong in trial, and through doubt more clear,Seeing in clouds and darkness One appearIn whose dread name the Nation's sword he drew.Rest, rest for him; and rest for us todayWhose sorrow shook the land from east to westWhen slain by treason on the Nation's breastHer martyr breathed his steadfast soul away.topTHE FUNERAL CARThiscar bore the remains of the Martyr President to his home in Springfield, Illinois, where they were laid to rest. The funeral train left Washington, D. C., on the 21st of April, 1865, proceeded from that city to Baltimore, Maryland; Harrisburg and Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; New York City, Albany and Buffalo, New York; Cleveland and Columbus, Ohio; Indianapolis, Indiana; Chicago, Illinois; and finally to Springfield, reaching the latter place May 3, where the last sad rites were performed on the succeeding day. The body lay in state in all the above cities, brief stops being also made in many smaller places.topRichard Henry Stoddardin the following Horatian Ode made a beautiful analysis of the Martyr President's character, with a magnificent picture of the nation's tribute of mourning for its dead chief:THE FUNERAL CAR OF LINCOLNPeace! Let the long procession come,For, hark!—the mournful, muffleddrum—The trumpet's wailafar—And, see! the awful car!Peace! let the sad procession go,While cannon boom, and bells toll slow:And go, thou sacred car,Bearing our Woe afar!Go, darkly borne, from State to State,Whose loyal, sorrowing cities waitTo honor all they canThe dust of that good man!Go, grandly borne, with such a trainAs greatest kings might die to gain;The Just, the Wise, the BraveAttend thee to the grave!And you the soldiers of our wars,Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars,Salute him once again,Your late Commander—slain!Yes, let your tears, indignant, fall,And leave your muskets on the wall;Your country needs you nowBeside the forge, the plow!top(When Justice shall unsheathe herbrand—If Mercy may not stay her hand,Nor would we have itso—She must direct the blow!)So, sweetly, sadly, sternly goesThe Fallen to his last repose;Beneath no mighty dome,But in his modest Home!The churchyard where his children rest,The quiet spot that suits him best;There shall his grave be made,And there his bones be laid!And there his countrymen shall come,With memory proud, with pity dumb,And strangers far and near,For many and many a year!For many a year, and many an age,With History on her ample pageThe virtues shall enrollOf that Paternal Soul.topWilliam Cullen Bryant, born in Cummington, Massachusetts, November 3, 1794. Died in New York, June 12, 1878. He wrote verses in his twelfth year to be recited at school. Spent two years at Williams College and at the age of eighteen began the study of law. He depended upon his profession for a number of years, although it was not to his liking. His contributions to theNorth American Reviewand his poems published therein gained him an enviable reputation, and reflected great credit upon him.THE DEATH OF LINCOLNOh, slow to smite and swift to spare,Gentle and merciful and just!Who, in the fear of God didst bearThe sword of power, a nation's trust.In sorrow by thy bier we stand,Amid the awe that hushes all,And speak the anguish of a landThat shook with horror at thy fall.Thy task is done; the bond isfree—We bear thee to an honored grave,Whose noblest monument shall beThe broken fetters of the slave.Pure was thy life; its bloody closeHath placed thee with the sons of lightAmong the noble host of thoseWho perished in the cause of right.topCITY HALL, NEW YORK, N. Y.Atthe time of the appearance of the procession at the City Hall at least twenty thousand persons were assembled in the immediate neighborhood. While awaiting the arrival of the procession a number of German singing bands were marched into the open space before the Hall, and arranged on either side of the entrance, preparatory to the singing of a requiem to the dead. The procession entered the Park at about half-past eleven o'clock, and the hearse stopped before the entrance to the Hall. Here the coffin was immediately taken from the hearse and carried up the stairs to the catafalque which had been prepared for its reception, while the singing societies rendered two very appropriate dirges.The interior of the City Hall had been decorated with much taste. Across the dome a black curtain was drawn, and the rays of light thus conducted fell subdued upon the sad but imposing spectacle.topHenry T. Tuckerman, a member of the Committee on Resolutions, wrote the following ode for the funeral obsequies, on the 25th day of April, 1865, at New York City. The Athenaeum Club participated, bearing an appropriate banner, the members wearing distinctive badges of mourning and under the leadership of their Vice-President, Henry E. Pierpont; the President, William T. Blodgett, being at that time absent acting as Chairman of the Citizens Committee:ODEShroudthe banner! rear the cross!Consecrate a nation's loss;Gaze on that majestic sleep;Stand beside the bier to weep;Lay the gentle son of toilProudly in his native soil;Crowned with honor, to his restBear the prophet of the West.How cold the brow that yet doth wearThe impress of a nation's care;How still the heart, whose every beatGlowed with compassion's sacred heat;Rigid the lips, whose patient smileDuty's stern task would oft beguile;Blood-quenched the pensive eye's soft light;Nerveless the hand so loth to smite;So meek in rule, it leads, though dead,The people as in life it led.O let his wise and guileless swayWin every recreant today,And sorrow's vast and holy waveBlend all our hearts around his grave!topLet the faithful bondmen's tears,Let the traitor's craven fears,And the people's grief and pride,Plead against the parricide!Let us throng to pledge and prayO'er the patriot martyr's clay;Then, with solemn faith in right,That made him victor in the fight,Cling to the path he fearless trod,Still radiant with the smile of God.Shroud the banner! rear the cross!Consecrate a nation's loss;Gaze on that majestic sleep;Stand beside the bier to weep;Lay the gentle son of toilProudly in his native soil;Crowned with honor, to his restBear the prophet of the West.Lucy Larcomwas born in Beverly, Mass., in 1826. At the age of seven years she wrote stories and poems. She spent three years in school, then worked in the cotton mills. Some of her writings attracted the attention of Whittier, from whom she received encouragement. At the age of twenty she went to Illinois and there taught school for some time, and for three years studied in Monticello Female Seminary. She returned to Massachusetts and during the war wrote many patriotic poems.topTOLLINGTolling, tolling, tolling!All the bells of the land!Lo, the patriot martyrTaketh his journey grand!Travels into the ages,Bearing a hope how dear!Into life's unknown vistas,Liberty's great pioneer.Tolling, tolling, tolling!See, they come as a cloud,Hearts of a mighty people,Bearing his pall and shroud;Lifting up, like a banner,Signals of loss and woe;Wonder of breathless nations,Moveth the solemn show.Tolling, tolling, tolling!Was it, O man beloved,Was it thy funeral onlyOver the land that moved?top
FORD'S THEATRE
Thebuilding is a plain brick structure, three stories high, seventy-one feet front and one hundred feet deep. It was originally constructed and occupied as a Baptist Church, but at the beginning of the war was converted into a theatre, though never used for that purpose after the assassination of Lincoln. The government purchased it for one hundred thousand dollars, and it is now used as a branch of the Record and Pension Division of the War Department. President Lincoln was shot by J. Wilkes Booth at 10.20 o'clockP.M.on the evening of April 14, 1865, while seated in his private box in the theatre.
top
By Robert Leighton
“Sicsemper tyrannis!" the assassin cried,As Lincoln fell. O villain! who than heMore lived to set both slave and tyrant free?Or so enrapt with plans of freedom died,That even thy treacherous deed shall glance asideAnd do the dead man's will by land and sea;Win bloodless battles, and make that to beWhich to his living mandate was denied!Peace to that gentle heart! The peace he soughtFor all mankind, nor for it dies in vain.Rest to the uncrowned king, who, toiling, broughtHis bleeding country through that dreadful reign;Who, living, earned a world's revering thought,And, dying, leaves his name without a stain.
“Sicsemper tyrannis!" the assassin cried,
As Lincoln fell. O villain! who than he
More lived to set both slave and tyrant free?
Or so enrapt with plans of freedom died,
That even thy treacherous deed shall glance aside
And do the dead man's will by land and sea;
Win bloodless battles, and make that to be
Which to his living mandate was denied!
Peace to that gentle heart! The peace he sought
For all mankind, nor for it dies in vain.
Rest to the uncrowned king, who, toiling, brought
His bleeding country through that dreadful reign;
Who, living, earned a world's revering thought,
And, dying, leaves his name without a stain.
Liverpool, England,May 5, 1865
Liverpool, England,
May 5, 1865
top
ABRAHAM LINCOLNFoully assassinated, April 14, 1865
Tom Taylorwrote the following poem, which appeared in theLondon Punch,May 6, 1865. The engraving is a facsimile of the one published in the paper at the head of the poem.
top
Youlay a wreath on murderedLincoln'sbier,You,who with mocking pencil wont to trace,Broad for self-complacent British sneer,His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face,
Youlay a wreath on murderedLincoln'sbier,
You,who with mocking pencil wont to trace,
Broad for self-complacent British sneer,
His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face,
His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair,His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease,His lack of all we prize as debonair,Of power or will to shine, of art to please,
His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair,
His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease,
His lack of all we prize as debonair,
Of power or will to shine, of art to please,
You,whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh,Judging each step, as though the way were plain:Reckless, so it could point its paragraph,Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain.
You,whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh,
Judging each step, as though the way were plain:
Reckless, so it could point its paragraph,
Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain.
Beside this corpse, that bears for winding sheetThe Stars and Stripes, he lived to rear anew,Between the mourners at his head and feet,Say, scurrile-jester, is there room foryou?
Beside this corpse, that bears for winding sheet
The Stars and Stripes, he lived to rear anew,
Between the mourners at his head and feet,
Say, scurrile-jester, is there room foryou?
Yes, he had lived to shame me from my sneer,To lame my pencil, and confute mypen—To make me own this hind of princes peer,This rail-splitter a true-born king of men.
Yes, he had lived to shame me from my sneer,
To lame my pencil, and confute mypen—
To make me own this hind of princes peer,
This rail-splitter a true-born king of men.
My shallow judgment I had learnt to rue,Noting how to occasion's height he rose,How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true,How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows.
My shallow judgment I had learnt to rue,
Noting how to occasion's height he rose,
How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true,
How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows.
topHow humble, yet how hopeful he could be;How in good fortune and in ill the same;Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he,Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame.
How humble, yet how hopeful he could be;
How in good fortune and in ill the same;
Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he,
Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame.
He went about his work—such work as fewEver had laid on head and heart andhand—As one who knows, where there's a task to do,Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command.
He went about his work—such work as few
Ever had laid on head and heart andhand—
As one who knows, where there's a task to do,
Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command.
Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow,That God makes instruments to work His will,If but that will we can arrive to know,Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill.
Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow,
That God makes instruments to work His will,
If but that will we can arrive to know,
Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill.
So he went forth to battle, on the sideThat he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's,As in his peasant boyhood he had pliedHis warfare with rude Nature's thwartingmights—
So he went forth to battle, on the side
That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's,
As in his peasant boyhood he had plied
His warfare with rude Nature's thwartingmights—
The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil,The iron-bark that turned the lumberer's axe,The rapid, that o'erbears the boatmen's toil,The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks,
The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil,
The iron-bark that turned the lumberer's axe,
The rapid, that o'erbears the boatmen's toil,
The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks,
The ambushed Indian, and the prowlingbear—Such were the needs that helped his youth to train;Rough culture—but such trees large fruit may bear,If but their stocks be of right girth and grain.
The ambushed Indian, and the prowlingbear—
Such were the needs that helped his youth to train;
Rough culture—but such trees large fruit may bear,
If but their stocks be of right girth and grain.
So he grew up, a destined work to do,And lived to do it—four long-suffering years;Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through,And then he heard the hisses change to cheers,
So he grew up, a destined work to do,
And lived to do it—four long-suffering years;
Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through,
And then he heard the hisses change to cheers,
topThe taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise,And took both with the same unwavering mood;Till, as he came on light from darking days,And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood,
The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise,
And took both with the same unwavering mood;
Till, as he came on light from darking days,
And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood,
A felon hand, between the goal and him,Reached from behind his back, a triggerprest,—And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim,Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest!
A felon hand, between the goal and him,
Reached from behind his back, a triggerprest,—
And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim,
Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest!
The words of mercy were upon his lips,Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen,When this vile murderer brought swift eclipseTo thoughts of peace on earth, good will to men.
The words of mercy were upon his lips,
Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen,
When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse
To thoughts of peace on earth, good will to men.
The Old World and the New, from sea to sea,Utter one voice of sympathy and shame!Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high,Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came.
The Old World and the New, from sea to sea,
Utter one voice of sympathy and shame!
Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high,
Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came.
A deed accurst! Strokes have been struck beforeBy the assassin's hand, whereof men doubtIf more of horror or disgrace they bore;But thy foul crime, like CAIN'S stands darkly out.
A deed accurst! Strokes have been struck before
By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt
If more of horror or disgrace they bore;
But thy foul crime, like CAIN'S stands darkly out.
Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife,Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven;And with the martyr's crown crownest a lifeWith much to praise, little to be forgiven!
Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife,
Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven;
And with the martyr's crown crownest a life
With much to praise, little to be forgiven!
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DEATHBED OF LINCOLN
Immediatelyafter the President was shot in Ford's Theatre he was carried across the street to the house of William Petersen and placed on a single bed in a room at the end of the hall. All through that weary night the watchers stood by the bedside. He was unconscious every moment from the time the bullet entered his head until Dr. Robert King Stone, the family physician, announced at twenty-two minutes after seven on the following morning that he had breathed his last (April 15, 1865). Upon this Secretary Edwin M. Stanton, Secretary of War, in a low voice said: "Now He Belongs to the Ages."
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Silencefalls, unbroken save by sobs of strong menIn that room, where Lincoln, at the morning hour's chimePassed out into the unknown from the world of human ken.Gone his body and his life work from the world inclosed by time;But in the silence that was falling after breath of broken prayer,Words eternal broke the quiet like a bell toll on the air;Never in the world's wide story, wiser spoke nor Prophet, spoke nor Sages,Than these words that broke the silence: "He belongs now to the Ages!"
Silencefalls, unbroken save by sobs of strong men
In that room, where Lincoln, at the morning hour's chime
Passed out into the unknown from the world of human ken.
Gone his body and his life work from the world inclosed by time;
But in the silence that was falling after breath of broken prayer,
Words eternal broke the quiet like a bell toll on the air;
Never in the world's wide story, wiser spoke nor Prophet, spoke nor Sages,
Than these words that broke the silence: "He belongs now to the Ages!"
"To the Ages!" well you spoke it, Stanton of the massive mind!He belongs, the years have shown it, to the world of human kind!Heard his story, where'er hearts throb o'er the world's far spreading way;Heard his story, children listen at the closing of the day;Heard his story, lovers speak it in their hushed and saddened tonesAs they wander in the twilight, dreaming of their coming homes;Heard his story, statesmen tell it, with a thrill of pride and truth;Heard his story, old men speak it to the country's growing youth.And the years have shown the Prophets, and the years have shown the Sages;Writ in fire these words of wisdom, "He belongs now to the Ages!"
"To the Ages!" well you spoke it, Stanton of the massive mind!
He belongs, the years have shown it, to the world of human kind!
Heard his story, where'er hearts throb o'er the world's far spreading way;
Heard his story, children listen at the closing of the day;
Heard his story, lovers speak it in their hushed and saddened tones
As they wander in the twilight, dreaming of their coming homes;
Heard his story, statesmen tell it, with a thrill of pride and truth;
Heard his story, old men speak it to the country's growing youth.
And the years have shown the Prophets, and the years have shown the Sages;
Writ in fire these words of wisdom, "He belongs now to the Ages!"
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ABRAHAM LINCOLN, President
ABRAHAM LINCOLNPresident
EDWIN M. STANTON, Secretary of War
EDWIN M. STANTONSecretary of War
Marion Mills Millerwas born at Eaton, Ohio, February 27, 1864. He was graduated from Princeton in 1886, and for several years thereafter was an instructor there in the English department. In 1889 he received the degree of Doctor of Literature from his Alma Mater. Since 1893 he has been engaged in literary and social reform work in New York City. He has published some verse and fiction, but his most notable work has been in the fields of translation and history. He has editedThe Classics—Greek and Latin(15 volumes), published in 1909, andGreat Debates in American History(14 volumes), published in 1913.
In 1907 he edited the Centenary Edition ofThe Life and Works of Abraham Lincolnin 10 volumes, logically arranged for ready reference. TheLife of Lincolnwas published separately in 1908 in two volumes. It is based on a manuscript by Henry C. Whitney, whose name it bears as author, although the second volume,Lincoln, the President,was largely written by Dr. Miller. The late Major William H. Lambert, presidenttopof the Lincoln Fellowship, called it "the best of the shorter biographies of Lincoln." Dr. Miller has also editedThe Wisdom of Lincoln(1908), a small book of extracts from Lincoln's speeches and writings. He wrote the following poem, "Lincoln and Stanton," especially forThe Poets' Lincoln.
The first reference in it is to the Manny-McCormick case over the patent rights of the reaping machine, in which Lincoln had been at first selected as principal pleader, but was superseded by Edwin M. Stanton. Having thoroughly prepared himself, he offered his assistance to Stanton, but was brusquely repulsed. He was so hurt that he felt like leaving the court room, but decided, in loyalty to his client, to remain, and, leaving his place among counsel, took a seat in the audience. Despite his injured feelings he was filled with admiration for Stanton's able and successful conduct of the case. Lincoln, probably referring to a slur of Stanton reported to him, said that he would have to go back to Illinois and "study more law," since the "college-bred" lawyers were pushing hard the "cornfield" ones.
The second reference is to Stanton's criticism of Lincoln's conservative course during the first months of his Presidency; "that imbecile at the White House," he called him. Stanton as Attorney-General at the close of Buchanan's administration had done effective work in foiling the plans of the Confederacy, and he believed in forceful measures to put down the rebellion in its incipiency.
The third reference is to the virtually enforced resignation of Simon Cameron, Lincoln's first Secretary of War, and Lincoln's choice to succeed him of Stanton, whom he realized to be the best equipped man in the country for the place.
The fourth reference is to Stanton's remark by the bedside of Lincoln as the stricken President ceased breathing: "There lies the greatest leader of men the world ever saw."
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Lincolnhad cause one man alone to hate:A fellow-lawyer, lacking in all grace,Who cast uncalled-for insult in his faceWhen Lincoln as his colleague, with innateCourtesy, proffered aid. With pride inflateThe scornful Stanton waved him to his place,Snapping, "I need no help to try this case";And "cornfield lawyer" muttered of his mate.
Lincolnhad cause one man alone to hate:
A fellow-lawyer, lacking in all grace,
Who cast uncalled-for insult in his face
When Lincoln as his colleague, with innate
Courtesy, proffered aid. With pride inflate
The scornful Stanton waved him to his place,
Snapping, "I need no help to try this case";
And "cornfield lawyer" muttered of his mate.
And when, as captain of the Union ship,Lincoln drew sail before the gathering stormTill favoring winds the shrouds unfurled should fill,Stanton again curled his contemptuous lipAnd, with the impatience of a patriot warm,Sneered at the helmsman, "craven imbecile."
And when, as captain of the Union ship,
Lincoln drew sail before the gathering storm
Till favoring winds the shrouds unfurled should fill,
Stanton again curled his contemptuous lip
And, with the impatience of a patriot warm,
Sneered at the helmsman, "craven imbecile."
Laid was the course at length; the sails untriedWere spread; the raw crew set at spar and coil.Now round the prow Charybdean waters boilAnd ever higher surges war's red tide.The mate who should the captain's care divideHas strengthless proved. Where shall, the foe to foil,A man be found able to bear the toilAnd stand, to steer the ship, by Lincoln's side?
Laid was the course at length; the sails untried
Were spread; the raw crew set at spar and coil.
Now round the prow Charybdean waters boil
And ever higher surges war's red tide.
The mate who should the captain's care divide
Has strengthless proved. Where shall, the foe to foil,
A man be found able to bear the toil
And stand, to steer the ship, by Lincoln's side?
Stanton he called! The bitter choice he madeFor country, not himself. The ship was drivenBy the great twain through war's abyss, againInto calm seas. Then Lincoln low was laid,And Stanton paid him highest tribute givenTo mortal: "Mightiest leader among men!"
Stanton he called! The bitter choice he made
For country, not himself. The ship was driven
By the great twain through war's abyss, again
Into calm seas. Then Lincoln low was laid,
And Stanton paid him highest tribute given
To mortal: "Mightiest leader among men!"
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THE DEATH OF LINCOLN
1 President Lincoln. 2 Hon. Gideon Welles, Secretary of the Navy. 3 John Hay, Esq., President's Private Secretary. 4 Hon. E. M. Stanton, Secretary of War. 5 Rev. Dr. Gurley. 6 Gen. Farnsworth, M. C. from Illinois. 7 Governor Ogilsby of Illinois. 8 General Todd. 9 Rufus Andrews, Esq. 10 Hon. W. T. Otto, Assistant Secretary of the Interior. 11 Hon. W. Denison, Postmaster-General. 12 Judge D. K. Carter. 13 Major-General Halleck. 14 Captain Robert Lincoln. 15 Dr. Leale. 16 Hon. Charles Sumner. 17 Dr. Crane, Assistant Surgeon-General. 18 Governor Farwell, of Wisconsin. 19 Hon. J. P. Usher, Secretary of the Interior. 20 Major-General Augur. 21 Major-General Meigs. 22 Maunsel B. Field, Esq. 23 Hon. Schuyler Colfax. 24 Hon. James Speed, Attorney-General. 25 Hon. H. McCullough, Secretary of the Treasury 26 Dr. R. K. Stone. 27 Surgeon-General Barnes.
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HOUSE IN WHICH LINCOLN DIED, Washington, D. C.
HOUSE IN WHICHLINCOLN DIEDWashington, D. C.
JOSEPHINE OLDROYD TIEFENTHALER, Born July 17, 1896. Died February 20, 1908
JOSEPHINE OLDROYD TIEFENTHALERBorn July 17, 1896.Died February 20, 1908
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Robert Mackayand his wife visited this historic house in 1902. They were met at the door and escorted through the various rooms containing the Collection by Little Josephine, and were deeply impressed at the knowledge she exhibited of Lincoln and the Collection, although she was but six years of age. Mr. Mackay was born at Virginia City, Nevada, April 22, 1871. ReporterSan Francisco Chronicle,1886. Worked on newspapers as printer, reporter and editor until 1895, when he traveled extensively over the world for the International News Syndicate; joined staff of theNew York Worldin 1899; managing editor ofSuccess Magazine,1900-1908. Editor theDelineator,1908. Joined editorial department of the Frank A. Munsey Company in 1909, contributor of short stories, also other prose and verse.
AboveJudea's purple-mantled plain,There hovers still, among the ruins lone,The spirit of the Christ whose dying moanWas heard in heaven, and paid our debt in pain.
AboveJudea's purple-mantled plain,
There hovers still, among the ruins lone,
The spirit of the Christ whose dying moan
Was heard in heaven, and paid our debt in pain.
As subtle perfume lingers with the rose,Even when its petals flutter to the earth,So clings the potent mystery of the birthOf that deep love from which all mercy flows.
As subtle perfume lingers with the rose,
Even when its petals flutter to the earth,
So clings the potent mystery of the birth
Of that deep love from which all mercy flows.
. . . .
Within this house,—this room,—a martyr died,A prophet of a largerliberty,—A liberator setting bondmen free,A full-orbed MAN, above mere mortal pride.top
Within this house,—this room,—a martyr died,
A prophet of a largerliberty,—
A liberator setting bondmen free,
A full-orbed MAN, above mere mortal pride.
The cloud-rifts opening to celestial glades,Oft glimpse him, and his spirit lingers still,As Christ's sweet influence broods upon the hillWhere the red lily with the sunset fades.
The cloud-rifts opening to celestial glades,
Oft glimpse him, and his spirit lingers still,
As Christ's sweet influence broods upon the hill
Where the red lily with the sunset fades.
. . . .
A little girl with eyes of heavenly blue,Sings through the old place, ignorant of all;Her angel face, her cheerful, birdlike callThrilling the heart to life more full, more true.
A little girl with eyes of heavenly blue,
Sings through the old place, ignorant of all;
Her angel face, her cheerful, birdlike call
Thrilling the heart to life more full, more true.
Translation from Latin verses
Fromhumble parentage and low degreeLincoln ascended to the highest rank;None ever had a harder task than he,It was perfected—him alone we thank.
Fromhumble parentage and low degree
Lincoln ascended to the highest rank;
None ever had a harder task than he,
It was perfected—him alone we thank.
Did the assassin think to kill a name,Or hand his own down to posterity?One will wear the laurel wreath of fame,The other be condemned to infamy.
Did the assassin think to kill a name,
Or hand his own down to posterity?
One will wear the laurel wreath of fame,
The other be condemned to infamy.
Caesar was killed by Brutus,Yet Rome did not cease to be;Lincoln by Booth, and yet the slavesIn all America are free!
Caesar was killed by Brutus,
Yet Rome did not cease to be;
Lincoln by Booth, and yet the slaves
In all America are free!
Rieti, France, May, 1865
Rieti, France, May, 1865
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From London Fun
Thehand of an Assassin, glowing red,Shot like a firebrand through the western sky;And stalwart Abraham Lincoln now is dead!O! felon heart that thus could basely dyeThe name of southerner with murderous gore!Could such a spirit come from mortal womb?And what possessed it that not heretoforeIt linked its coward mission with the tomb?Lincoln! thy fame shall sound through many an age,To prove that genius lives in humble birth;Thy name shall sound upon historic page,For 'midst thy faults we all esteemed thy worth.
Thehand of an Assassin, glowing red,
Shot like a firebrand through the western sky;
And stalwart Abraham Lincoln now is dead!
O! felon heart that thus could basely dye
The name of southerner with murderous gore!
Could such a spirit come from mortal womb?
And what possessed it that not heretofore
It linked its coward mission with the tomb?
Lincoln! thy fame shall sound through many an age,
To prove that genius lives in humble birth;
Thy name shall sound upon historic page,
For 'midst thy faults we all esteemed thy worth.
Gone art thou now! no more 'midst angry heatShall thy calm spirit rule the surging tide,Which rolls where two contending nations meet,To still the passion and to curb the pride.Nations have looked and seen the fate of kings,Protectors, emperors, and such like men;Behold the man whose dirge all Europe sings,Now past the eulogy of mortal pen!He, like a lighthouse, fell athwart the strand;Let curses rest upon the assassin's hand.
Gone art thou now! no more 'midst angry heat
Shall thy calm spirit rule the surging tide,
Which rolls where two contending nations meet,
To still the passion and to curb the pride.
Nations have looked and seen the fate of kings,
Protectors, emperors, and such like men;
Behold the man whose dirge all Europe sings,
Now past the eulogy of mortal pen!
He, like a lighthouse, fell athwart the strand;
Let curses rest upon the assassin's hand.
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THE FUNERAL OF LINCOLNCeremonies in the East Room of the White House, April 19, 1865
Atten minutes after twelve o'clock Rev. Charles H. Hall, of the Church of the Epiphany, opened the service by reading from the Episcopal Burial Service for the Dead. Bishop Matthew Simpson of the Methodist Church then offered prayer, and the Rev. Dr. Phineas D. Gurley, pastor of the New York Avenue Presbyterian Church, at which Mr. Lincoln and his family attended, delivered a sermon. The Rev. E. H. Gray, D.D., of the E Street Baptist Church, closed the solemn service with prayer.
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Phineas Densmore Gurley, born at Hamilton, New York, 1816. Educated at Union College, Schenectady, New York. Taught during vacation, graduated 1837. Studied theology at the Theological Seminary, Princeton, New Jersey. Was licensed to preach in 1840. In 1840 he went to Indianapolis, Indiana, and took charge of a church. In 1849 he removed to Dayton, Ohio, taking charge of a church, and in 1853 moved to Washington, D. C., and took charge of a Presbyterian Church on F Street, afterwards Willard Hall. In 1858 was elected Chaplain of the United States Senate. In July, 1859, the Second Presbyterian Church and the F Street Church united, and were known as the New York Avenue Presbyterian Church, Dr. Gurley becoming its pastor from March, 1861, until his death. President Lincoln was a pew holder and a regular attendant, but was not a member. On one occasion the President remarked, "I like Dr. Gurley, he doesn't preach politics. I get enough of that during the week, and when I go to church I like to hear gospel."
When the President was assassinated Dr. Gurley was sent for and remained with the President until he breathed his last.
As soon as the spirit took its flight, Secretary Stanton turned to Dr. Gurley and said, "Doctor, will you say something?" After a brief pause, Dr. Gurley said, "Let us talk with God," and offered a touching prayer. Dr. Gurley died September 30, 1868.
Rest, noble martyr! rest in peace;Rest with the true and brave,Who, like thee, fell in freedom's cause,The nation's life to save.
Rest, noble martyr! rest in peace;
Rest with the true and brave,
Who, like thee, fell in freedom's cause,
The nation's life to save.
Thy name shall live while time endures,And men shall say of thee,"He saved his country from its foes,And bade the slave be free."top
Thy name shall live while time endures,
And men shall say of thee,
"He saved his country from its foes,
And bade the slave be free."
These deeds shall be thy monument,Better than brass or stone;They leave thy fame in glory's light,Unrival'd and alone.
These deeds shall be thy monument,
Better than brass or stone;
They leave thy fame in glory's light,
Unrival'd and alone.
This consecrated spot shall beTo freedom ever dear;And freedom's sons of every raceShall weep and worship here.
This consecrated spot shall be
To freedom ever dear;
And freedom's sons of every race
Shall weep and worship here.
O God! before whom we, in tears,Our fallen chief deplore,Grant that the cause for which he diedMay live forevermore.
O God! before whom we, in tears,
Our fallen chief deplore,
Grant that the cause for which he died
May live forevermore.
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HarrietMcEwen Kimball, born at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, November, 1834. Educated there; specially known as a religious poet, although she has written much secular verse; chief founder of the Portsmouth Cottage Hospital. Author hymns,Swallow Flights;Blessed Company of All Faithful People;Poems(complete edition), 1889.
Rest, rest for him whose noble work is done;For him who led us gently, unaware,Till we were readier to do and dareFor Freedom, and her hundred fields were won.
Rest, rest for him whose noble work is done;
For him who led us gently, unaware,
Till we were readier to do and dare
For Freedom, and her hundred fields were won.
His march is ended where his march began;More sweet his sleep for toil and sacrifice,And that rare wisdom whose beginning liesIn fear of God, and charity for man;
His march is ended where his march began;
More sweet his sleep for toil and sacrifice,
And that rare wisdom whose beginning lies
In fear of God, and charity for man;
And sweetest for the tender faith that grewMore strong in trial, and through doubt more clear,Seeing in clouds and darkness One appearIn whose dread name the Nation's sword he drew.
And sweetest for the tender faith that grew
More strong in trial, and through doubt more clear,
Seeing in clouds and darkness One appear
In whose dread name the Nation's sword he drew.
Rest, rest for him; and rest for us todayWhose sorrow shook the land from east to westWhen slain by treason on the Nation's breastHer martyr breathed his steadfast soul away.
Rest, rest for him; and rest for us today
Whose sorrow shook the land from east to west
When slain by treason on the Nation's breast
Her martyr breathed his steadfast soul away.
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THE FUNERAL CAR
Thiscar bore the remains of the Martyr President to his home in Springfield, Illinois, where they were laid to rest. The funeral train left Washington, D. C., on the 21st of April, 1865, proceeded from that city to Baltimore, Maryland; Harrisburg and Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; New York City, Albany and Buffalo, New York; Cleveland and Columbus, Ohio; Indianapolis, Indiana; Chicago, Illinois; and finally to Springfield, reaching the latter place May 3, where the last sad rites were performed on the succeeding day. The body lay in state in all the above cities, brief stops being also made in many smaller places.
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Richard Henry Stoddardin the following Horatian Ode made a beautiful analysis of the Martyr President's character, with a magnificent picture of the nation's tribute of mourning for its dead chief:
Peace! Let the long procession come,For, hark!—the mournful, muffleddrum—The trumpet's wailafar—And, see! the awful car!
Peace! Let the long procession come,
For, hark!—the mournful, muffleddrum—
The trumpet's wailafar—
And, see! the awful car!
Peace! let the sad procession go,While cannon boom, and bells toll slow:And go, thou sacred car,Bearing our Woe afar!
Peace! let the sad procession go,
While cannon boom, and bells toll slow:
And go, thou sacred car,
Bearing our Woe afar!
Go, darkly borne, from State to State,Whose loyal, sorrowing cities waitTo honor all they canThe dust of that good man!
Go, darkly borne, from State to State,
Whose loyal, sorrowing cities wait
To honor all they can
The dust of that good man!
Go, grandly borne, with such a trainAs greatest kings might die to gain;The Just, the Wise, the BraveAttend thee to the grave!
Go, grandly borne, with such a train
As greatest kings might die to gain;
The Just, the Wise, the Brave
Attend thee to the grave!
And you the soldiers of our wars,Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars,Salute him once again,Your late Commander—slain!
And you the soldiers of our wars,
Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars,
Salute him once again,
Your late Commander—slain!
Yes, let your tears, indignant, fall,And leave your muskets on the wall;Your country needs you nowBeside the forge, the plow!top
Yes, let your tears, indignant, fall,
And leave your muskets on the wall;
Your country needs you now
Beside the forge, the plow!
(When Justice shall unsheathe herbrand—If Mercy may not stay her hand,Nor would we have itso—She must direct the blow!)
(When Justice shall unsheathe herbrand—
If Mercy may not stay her hand,
Nor would we have itso—
She must direct the blow!)
So, sweetly, sadly, sternly goesThe Fallen to his last repose;Beneath no mighty dome,But in his modest Home!
So, sweetly, sadly, sternly goes
The Fallen to his last repose;
Beneath no mighty dome,
But in his modest Home!
The churchyard where his children rest,The quiet spot that suits him best;There shall his grave be made,And there his bones be laid!
The churchyard where his children rest,
The quiet spot that suits him best;
There shall his grave be made,
And there his bones be laid!
And there his countrymen shall come,With memory proud, with pity dumb,And strangers far and near,For many and many a year!
And there his countrymen shall come,
With memory proud, with pity dumb,
And strangers far and near,
For many and many a year!
For many a year, and many an age,With History on her ample pageThe virtues shall enrollOf that Paternal Soul.
For many a year, and many an age,
With History on her ample page
The virtues shall enroll
Of that Paternal Soul.
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William Cullen Bryant, born in Cummington, Massachusetts, November 3, 1794. Died in New York, June 12, 1878. He wrote verses in his twelfth year to be recited at school. Spent two years at Williams College and at the age of eighteen began the study of law. He depended upon his profession for a number of years, although it was not to his liking. His contributions to theNorth American Reviewand his poems published therein gained him an enviable reputation, and reflected great credit upon him.
Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare,Gentle and merciful and just!Who, in the fear of God didst bearThe sword of power, a nation's trust.
Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare,
Gentle and merciful and just!
Who, in the fear of God didst bear
The sword of power, a nation's trust.
In sorrow by thy bier we stand,Amid the awe that hushes all,And speak the anguish of a landThat shook with horror at thy fall.
In sorrow by thy bier we stand,
Amid the awe that hushes all,
And speak the anguish of a land
That shook with horror at thy fall.
Thy task is done; the bond isfree—We bear thee to an honored grave,Whose noblest monument shall beThe broken fetters of the slave.
Thy task is done; the bond isfree—
We bear thee to an honored grave,
Whose noblest monument shall be
The broken fetters of the slave.
Pure was thy life; its bloody closeHath placed thee with the sons of lightAmong the noble host of thoseWho perished in the cause of right.
Pure was thy life; its bloody close
Hath placed thee with the sons of light
Among the noble host of those
Who perished in the cause of right.
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CITY HALL, NEW YORK, N. Y.
Atthe time of the appearance of the procession at the City Hall at least twenty thousand persons were assembled in the immediate neighborhood. While awaiting the arrival of the procession a number of German singing bands were marched into the open space before the Hall, and arranged on either side of the entrance, preparatory to the singing of a requiem to the dead. The procession entered the Park at about half-past eleven o'clock, and the hearse stopped before the entrance to the Hall. Here the coffin was immediately taken from the hearse and carried up the stairs to the catafalque which had been prepared for its reception, while the singing societies rendered two very appropriate dirges.
The interior of the City Hall had been decorated with much taste. Across the dome a black curtain was drawn, and the rays of light thus conducted fell subdued upon the sad but imposing spectacle.
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Henry T. Tuckerman, a member of the Committee on Resolutions, wrote the following ode for the funeral obsequies, on the 25th day of April, 1865, at New York City. The Athenaeum Club participated, bearing an appropriate banner, the members wearing distinctive badges of mourning and under the leadership of their Vice-President, Henry E. Pierpont; the President, William T. Blodgett, being at that time absent acting as Chairman of the Citizens Committee:
Shroudthe banner! rear the cross!Consecrate a nation's loss;Gaze on that majestic sleep;Stand beside the bier to weep;Lay the gentle son of toilProudly in his native soil;Crowned with honor, to his restBear the prophet of the West.
Shroudthe banner! rear the cross!
Consecrate a nation's loss;
Gaze on that majestic sleep;
Stand beside the bier to weep;
Lay the gentle son of toil
Proudly in his native soil;
Crowned with honor, to his rest
Bear the prophet of the West.
How cold the brow that yet doth wearThe impress of a nation's care;How still the heart, whose every beatGlowed with compassion's sacred heat;Rigid the lips, whose patient smileDuty's stern task would oft beguile;Blood-quenched the pensive eye's soft light;Nerveless the hand so loth to smite;So meek in rule, it leads, though dead,The people as in life it led.
How cold the brow that yet doth wear
The impress of a nation's care;
How still the heart, whose every beat
Glowed with compassion's sacred heat;
Rigid the lips, whose patient smile
Duty's stern task would oft beguile;
Blood-quenched the pensive eye's soft light;
Nerveless the hand so loth to smite;
So meek in rule, it leads, though dead,
The people as in life it led.
O let his wise and guileless swayWin every recreant today,And sorrow's vast and holy waveBlend all our hearts around his grave!topLet the faithful bondmen's tears,Let the traitor's craven fears,And the people's grief and pride,Plead against the parricide!Let us throng to pledge and prayO'er the patriot martyr's clay;Then, with solemn faith in right,That made him victor in the fight,Cling to the path he fearless trod,Still radiant with the smile of God.
O let his wise and guileless sway
Win every recreant today,
And sorrow's vast and holy wave
Blend all our hearts around his grave!
Let the faithful bondmen's tears,
Let the traitor's craven fears,
And the people's grief and pride,
Plead against the parricide!
Let us throng to pledge and pray
O'er the patriot martyr's clay;
Then, with solemn faith in right,
That made him victor in the fight,
Cling to the path he fearless trod,
Still radiant with the smile of God.
Shroud the banner! rear the cross!Consecrate a nation's loss;Gaze on that majestic sleep;Stand beside the bier to weep;Lay the gentle son of toilProudly in his native soil;Crowned with honor, to his restBear the prophet of the West.
Shroud the banner! rear the cross!
Consecrate a nation's loss;
Gaze on that majestic sleep;
Stand beside the bier to weep;
Lay the gentle son of toil
Proudly in his native soil;
Crowned with honor, to his rest
Bear the prophet of the West.
Lucy Larcomwas born in Beverly, Mass., in 1826. At the age of seven years she wrote stories and poems. She spent three years in school, then worked in the cotton mills. Some of her writings attracted the attention of Whittier, from whom she received encouragement. At the age of twenty she went to Illinois and there taught school for some time, and for three years studied in Monticello Female Seminary. She returned to Massachusetts and during the war wrote many patriotic poems.
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Tolling, tolling, tolling!All the bells of the land!Lo, the patriot martyrTaketh his journey grand!Travels into the ages,Bearing a hope how dear!Into life's unknown vistas,Liberty's great pioneer.
Tolling, tolling, tolling!
All the bells of the land!
Lo, the patriot martyr
Taketh his journey grand!
Travels into the ages,
Bearing a hope how dear!
Into life's unknown vistas,
Liberty's great pioneer.
Tolling, tolling, tolling!See, they come as a cloud,Hearts of a mighty people,Bearing his pall and shroud;Lifting up, like a banner,Signals of loss and woe;Wonder of breathless nations,Moveth the solemn show.
Tolling, tolling, tolling!
See, they come as a cloud,
Hearts of a mighty people,
Bearing his pall and shroud;
Lifting up, like a banner,
Signals of loss and woe;
Wonder of breathless nations,
Moveth the solemn show.
Tolling, tolling, tolling!Was it, O man beloved,Was it thy funeral onlyOver the land that moved?
Tolling, tolling, tolling!
Was it, O man beloved,
Was it thy funeral only
Over the land that moved?
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