CHAPTER XVII.

FALL OF RICHMOND—SURRENDER OF LEE—MY RETURN TO WASHINGTON—THE ILLUMINATION—THE ASSASSINATION OF THE PRESIDENT—HIS REMAINS IN STATE—FUNERAL OBSEQUIES—THOUGHTS AND REFLECTIONS UPON HIS LIFE AND MANY VIRTUES—HOSPITAL WORK IN WASHINGTON, ALEXANDRIA AND SURROUNDING CAMPS—THE ARMY RECALLED—THE MICHIGAN “HOME”—TRIP TO BALTIMORE AND ANNAPOLIS—HOSPITAL DISCONTINUED—THE GRAND REVIEW—CLOSING REFLECTIONS.

I arrived in Washington the evening of the 13th of April, the night before that great national calamity, the assassination of our beloved President.

The evening of my arrival there was a grand illumination of the city in honor of our recent victories, which resulted in the fall of Richmond, the surrender of Lee, and the overthrow of the rebellion.

Lights gleamed from nearly every window—the White House was beautifully illuminated and gaily decorated with the stars and stripes—numerous small flags floated from the windows, while larger ones were festooned over the doors or proudly waved from lofty flag-staffs. O ye starry emblems of liberty, what rivers of blood it has cost to maintain your honor!

The stately Capitol, with its myriads of lights blazing from its windows and surrounded with brilliant transparencies, looked indeed like a “city set upon a hill, whose light cannot be hid.” The streets were thronged with admiring spectators. The President, with the General-in-chief of our armies, rode up and down Pennsylvania avenue—alas! for the last time together—rejoicing that the dove had at last returned to the ark with the olive branch of peace. Every loyal heart beat high with hope, not only at the national capital, but throughout the length and breadth of our land. The voice of praise and thanksgiving ascended to Him, who, ruling among the nations of the earth, as well as in the armies of heaven, had crowned the cause of right with victory.

Mothers wept for joy for the “dear boys” who would soon “come marching home.” Wives with anxious hearts anticipated the moment when they should welcome their heroic husbands’ return. Children waited impatiently to hear “father’s” well-known footstep. Even those who had not nothing to expect, whose dear ones were numbered with the slain, shared in the general joy.

All were happy—the white man that the war was over, the black man that he was free. But this rejoicing is of short continuance. Treason calls for another victim—the country’s foremost man and best.While the children rejoice, the father himself is stricken down. The nation’s life is sealed with the blood of its martyr head! The fruit of those long years of toil will be reaped by others. The work for which he was raised up being accomplished, he enters into his rest; and this almost universal rejoicing is succeeded by a world-wide grief. On the night of the 14th an assassin commits the dark and villainous deed that plunges the nation into the deepest woe! The next morning, at twenty-two minutes past seven, the solemn tolling of bells announces the death of Abraham Lincoln!

The following is an extract from my journal of April 15th, 1865: “Soon the sad tidings will be borne with the speed of lightning to the remotest part of our country and of the civilized world. The wild excitement which might be expected seems hushed to silence for want of words to express the deep emotions which stir the heart. Many anticipate a riot before morning. Strict orders have been issued from the War Department, death being the penalty of a traitorous sentiment uttered. No one is allowed to leave or enter the city. Trains have stopped running, except for the mail; boats can neither land at nor leave the wharf.

“J. Wilkes Booth—a stage-actor—is supposed to be the murderer. A large reward has been offered forhis arrest. If he is caught during the present state of excitement, the law will be robbed of its due, for the cry of every loyal heart is: ‘Avenge the death of our President.’ Washington, so recently decorated with flags, is now draped in mourning; those starry banners, but yesterday so proudly floating in the breeze, now droop at half-mast, and are wearing the emblems of woe. Only last evening the country was bewildered with joy; to-day the nation is bowed with a sorrow so great ‘that the huge earth can scarce support it.’ All nature mourns. Even the elements seem to share in the general gloom. Darkening clouds fill the heavens, and water the earth with their tears. Oh, can we believe that this black cloud which hangs over our national horizon has a ‘silver lining?’ Has this dark picture a bright side? No ray of sunshine is seen on its gloomy background. In the death of Abraham Lincoln the country has sustained an irreparable loss. His place none can ever fill. A great and good man has fallen. In him were exemplified the true principles of Christianity: he was kind, merciful, forgiving, and generous to a fault. How truthfully has it been said, that ‘he was great in goodness, and good in greatness.’ Oh, how cruel! after four years of trial and burden, such as none other ever bore, that Treason should take his precious life; but he lived to see that victory, final and complete, hadperched upon our banner. If life consists in deeds, not years, how few have lived as long as he.”

It was my sad privilege to see the remains of our lamented President twice while lying in state—once at the White House, and again at the Capitol. Emblems of mourning were everywhere visible. Darkened rooms, with gas dimly burning, added to the oppressive gloom. Suppressed sobs and bursts of grief were heard, as one after another took the farewell look of him they loved. Strong men, unaccustomed to tears, wept beside his bier.

He was stricken down in the midst of his usefulness, at a time when the nation greatly needed his wise counsels and righteous administration.

His funeral obsequies were observed in Washington, Wednesday, the 19th instant. The solemnities of the occasion I will not attempt to describe; that has already been done by abler pens. That long procession, consisting of infantry, cavalry, and artillery, with various bands; the Marine Corps and band; officers of the army and navy; Congressmen; members of the Cabinet; the Diplomatic Corps; various orders and lodges; Governors of States; the clergy, of all denominations; clerks from the different departments, and thousands of private citizens, all wearing the badge of mourning; flags and banners, draped and athalf-mast; the dirge-like music; the tolling of bells and firing of guns—rendered it the most solemn scene ever witnessed on this continent. None but an eye-witness can form any adequate conception of that solemn pageantry. Thousands thronged the sidewalks, windows, verandahs; and trees were filled with weeping spectators.

The morning of the 21st, the remains were removed to Baltimore,en routefor his Western home and final resting-place. The busy world moves on, and, though we see his face no more, he will long live in the memory of a grateful people. History will love to record his virtues. His name will be handed down to future generations, linked with that of Washington, “and many will rise up and call him blessed.”

Well has it been said, that, “in the death of Abraham Lincoln, the world has lost its greatest philanthropist, the nation its purest patriot, the people their best and kindest friend. His life was the brightest page in our country’s history, his death the nation’s deepest sorrow.” But he has left a bright record. Oh! that all, not only as a nation, but as individuals, might emulate his example, cultivate his virtues, live for God and humanity as did Abraham Lincoln. “He lived not only for a day, but for all time. His life was gentle, his death peaceful, his future all glory.”

In referring to my journal, I find, under date ofApril 21st, the following: “One week ago to-night the assassin’s hand was imbued in innocent blood, and, a few hours later, the great heart of Abraham Lincoln forever grew still! This is, surely, a mysterious dispensation of God’s providence, and we are led to ask, ‘Oh, Lord! why was it?’ Yet, while we mourn, it becometh us to bow in submission to Him who knoweth the end from the beginning, and, though he has permitted this wicked deed, we know that ‘he is too wise to err;’ that he ‘worketh all things after the counsel of his own will,’ causing even the wrath of man to praise him.”

I will here give an extract—which seems so appropriate—taken from an oration delivered by Senator Foot on the death of Senator Collamar, both of Vermont, and both now no more: “Abraham Lincoln—clarum nomen—the poor Kentucky boy, the martyr President, who had saved a country and redeemed a race—the martyr President, who, having saved his country from the greatest rebellion of all history, and redeemed a race from the bondage of centuries, falling by the assassin hand of Treason, went down to the grave amid a nation’s tears, and amid a nation’s requiem of wailing, yet bearing with him to the tomb more of the world’s affections, more of its sympathy, and more of its honors, too, than were ever accorded to other man, or prince, or potentateof earth, and whose highest eulogium is spoken in the universal lamentation.”

There was no time during the war that I experienced more fatigue in my work than the last three months. The reason, perhaps, was, that I had not fully regained my strength after my sickness at City Point. Then our hospitals were so scattered—several of them being situated in the extreme limits of the city—some of which were immensely large, containing from seventy to eighty wards. Besides these, there were two extensive hospitals in Alexandria, viz.: Sough and Sickles’ barracks. All the hospitals in that place were merged in these two. Then there was Fairfax Seminary, and a large hospital at Camp Stoneman.

The field was large, but, with large supplies to draw from, and a well-filled treasury, we were enabled to accomplish a good work. About the middle of April, our Association established a “Home” for the benefit of Michigan soldiers. Here a large number were daily fed, and many of them supplied with tobacco, stationery, etc. Our expenses were necessarily increased, and I hope the additional good accomplished more than compensated for the extra expense; but I have always felt that more good would have been done had all our means gone to the direct relief of the sick and wounded in our hospitalsand the surrounding camps. That good was accomplished by the establishment of the “Home,” no one can deny; but that more would have been done without it, I firmly believe.

Early in May, the Association purchased a horse and buggy, which greatly facilitated my work, and enabled me to accomplish much more, with less fatigue, than before.

Not long after this Mrs. Brainard returned from her work at the front. Washington was assigned her, and I was sent to Baltimore. I left my field of labor not without many regrets, for I had tried so hard to get my work reduced to anything like system, that I was loth to leave it; besides, the army of the Potomac had been recalled. Sherman’s troops were arriving; our hospitals were receiving every day new accessions to our already large numbers, and it did seem to me that Washington was the very place where the greatest good could be done; but it was thought best for me to go, for a few days at least, and I did so. There were only five hospitals there at that time—one having been discontinued a few days before my arrival, and two others soon after. I found about fifty Michigan soldiers in these hospitals, all of whom, except four, were convalescent. After supplying the wants of these, I went to Annapolis, visited St. John’s hospital—the only one there at that time—where I found but twoMichigan soldiers, who were considered to be in a dangerous situation. One of these was sick with small-pox, and the other badly wounded in both hips. There seemed to be a great demand among the convalescents and paroled prisoners for tobacco, which I supplied them, also with stationery, and such articles of clothing as each was needing; besides giving to those without money a few shillings a piece.

I returned to Baltimore the afternoon of the same day, without stopping at the camp of paroled prisoners as I had designed, for the rain was falling almost in torrents when the train passed through the camp; consequently my contemplated visit to those poor paroled prisoners was never made—something I shall ever look back upon with regret. At Baltimore, I made another tour through the hospitals, distributing sundry articles, which I promised at my former visit, and then returned to Washington, where a certain number of hospitals were assigned me as my special field of labor; yet I did not confine myself entirely to these, but made several visits to the surrounding camps with supplies, not only for those sick in the regimental hospitals, but also in their quarters. Soon the hospitals in the city began to be broken up, and before the close of the month of June, several were entirely discontinued. I can never efface from memory the feelings of loneliness experienced in passing through thoseempty hospitals. Each ward seemed like a haunted house, where the spirits of the departed still lingered. How suggestive even the number of these barracks or tents, many of which would bring to mind vivid recollections of painful scenes therein witnessed. In one, even now, I see the wasting form of Cyrus Cobb: a severe wound is sapping the very fountain of life; all his bright dreams of home, of that dear mother he so loved, and of whom he daily spoke, of other kindred and loved ones, of future plans and prospects, vanish at the approach of death; but we trust he has entered a better than any earthly home—even an heavenly. Near his cot I see a lingering consumptive—a Maryland soldier—the unnatural brilliancy of whose eye admonishes us all that the time of his departure is at hand.

In another ward lies one, whose beaming countenance indicates peace with God. The amputating knife has removed the shattered limb, but it avails nothing. When asked concerning his future prospects, “all bright,” is his cheerful answer. Soon there is another vacant bed, and the brother returns with the remains, sad and lonely, to his home in Pennsylvania, while the departed one sweetly sleeps in Jesus. Here too is another who has given his strong right arm for his country; he is convalescing, and is anticipating a speedy return home. But the fatal feverseizes him, and, in a few days, William McCormick is no more. Thus I might continue to enumerate such instances for nearly every ward in our hospitals, but the memory of them is too painful. It is like living over again those days of sad experiences.

“Through all rebellion’s horrors,Bright shines our nation’s fame;Our gallent soldiers, perishing,Have left a deathless name.”

“Through all rebellion’s horrors,

Bright shines our nation’s fame;

Our gallent soldiers, perishing,

Have left a deathless name.”

The grand review of the army took place on the 23d and 24th of May. It was estimated that one hundred and fifty thousand (150,000) troops passed in review. It was a grand spectacle—a sight never before and never again to be witnessed on this continent.

Those gallant officers in full military uniform, mounted upon prancing steeds, galloping up the broad avenue; the admiring crowd showering both horse and rider with beautiful wreaths and bouquets; the graceful saluteà la militaire; the throwing up of hats, the waving of handkerchiefs and the loud huzzas that rent the air, made it an exciting scene. There was General U. S. Grant, the calm, self-possessed, heroic soldier, whose brow was crowned with the wreath of victory bravely won on a hundred battle-fields. There, too, was General Sherman, the invincible,who has yet to learn the meaning of the word defeat, and whose great “March to the Sea” has won the applause of an admiring world. The brave and gallant Meade, who so long and well commanded the army of the Potomac, and who hastened the overthrow of the rebellion by turning the tide of battle at Gettysburg, was among the number. The hero of Winchester—General Phil. Sheridan—too, was there; also that great cavalry rider, General Kilpatrick, with a corps of subordinate officers—among them our own Custer, of whom we have been so proud. There was General Burnside, the noble, generous soldier, whose heroisms never shone on the victorious field with a brighter lustre than after the defeat at Fredericksburg; who, when efforts were being made to exonerate him from all blame, manfully stepped forth, and, with a moral heroism less human than divine, confessed to the world that he alone was responsible for that defeat, acknowledged his inability to command so large an army, and humbly asked to be relieved and assigned to a subordinate position. Afterwards, the old Ninth Corps, under his victorious leadership, covered itself with glory and honor. But, “in that bright constellation of noble heroes,” none shone with a purer radiance—though perhaps with greater brilliancy—than that one-armed Christian soldier, Major-General O. O. Howard.

“O soldier with the empty sleeve,The nation gives you blessing,And woman’s hand shall keep for youIts tenderest caressing.”

“O soldier with the empty sleeve,

The nation gives you blessing,

And woman’s hand shall keep for you

Its tenderest caressing.”

The navy was likewise largely represented by officers of different rank, foremost among whom was Admiral Farragut—once “lashed to the mast.” The first day, the army of the Potomac—those heroes of so many battles—passed in review; the next, Sherman’s grand columns. It would seem impossible for one to look back upon those war-worn veterans, those battle-scarred heroes, whose trusty swords, wielded by strong arms, had gotten us the victory and saved the life of the Republic, and hear their stately “tramp, tramp, tramp,” for six successive hours, causing the earth to tremble beneath their firm tread, proudly bearing aloft their tattered banners, under which they had fought and their comrades fallen, without his heart swelling with emotions of deep gratitude and his eyes becoming dim with tears. Neither the services nor the hardships of the soldiers can ever be fully appreciated or estimated. Oh! those long fatiguing marches—the lonely picket post—the cold, damp bivouac—the scorching heat—the weary months spent in hospital—the loathesome confinement in prison-pens, those ante-chambers of hell, compared to which the meanest jail or penitentiary or almshouse was aparadise, and the exchange would have been hailed with far great joy than was the fairy isle of Calipso by the wrecked Télémaque, but the escape from which was a thousandfold more difficult than his from this enchanted isle!

In retrospecting the past, I find conflicting emotions alternately taking possession of my heart, emotions both of joy and sorrow. There are many pleasant remembrances connected with my “army life;” but, ah! there are also many sad reflections. My experience, though varied, sometimes joyous and again heart-rending, I would not take a fortune for. Good opportunities were afforded for the study of that greatest of all studies, human nature. Every trait of the human heart might be detected, not only the evil passions, but also the God-like virtues. There were many pleasures experienced in working for the soldier. It was pleasant to meet, not only old friends and acquaintances, but to form new ones. It was pleasant to see countenances light up as one entered the wards where the sick and wounded were lying. It was pleasant to know that your efforts, however humble, were gratefully appreciated—yea, an hundredfold. And there was a melancholy pleasure even in administering to dying wants; but the best of all was the consciousness of doing good; but the sad reflections far outweigh all the pleasant experiences. Itis sad to think of the desolate homes, of the broken family circles, of the lonely firesides, of the many sorrowing ones all over our land. It is sad to think of the thousands of widowed wives and fatherless children, of so many loving mothers who wait in vain for the return of their darling boys, and of aged fathers who have none upon whom to lean, the staff of their declining years having been broken. It is sad to see so many crippled youth, so many empty sleeves.

“Empty sleeves! oh, sad remindersOf that long and dreary night,Mournful tokens of the battle,Saddest traces of the fight;Telling us how heroes sufferedFor their country and the right.“But those empty sleeves are hallowedBy the grave the battle leaves—Mournful pride and saddest glory,Noblest gift our land receives.Honor to those gallant heroes!Honor to those empty sleeves!”

“Empty sleeves! oh, sad remindersOf that long and dreary night,Mournful tokens of the battle,Saddest traces of the fight;Telling us how heroes sufferedFor their country and the right.

“Empty sleeves! oh, sad reminders

Of that long and dreary night,

Mournful tokens of the battle,

Saddest traces of the fight;

Telling us how heroes suffered

For their country and the right.

“But those empty sleeves are hallowedBy the grave the battle leaves—Mournful pride and saddest glory,Noblest gift our land receives.Honor to those gallant heroes!Honor to those empty sleeves!”

“But those empty sleeves are hallowed

By the grave the battle leaves—

Mournful pride and saddest glory,

Noblest gift our land receives.

Honor to those gallant heroes!

Honor to those empty sleeves!”

When we think of the untold millions spent, and the myriads of lives sacrificed in crushing out the rebellion—for “from Western plain to ocean-tide are stretched the graves of those who died”—the price seems too costly. But how truthful the following:

“Some things are worthless, and others so goodThat nations who buy them pay only in blood.”

“Some things are worthless, and others so good

That nations who buy them pay only in blood.”

And only when we remember the grand result achieved—“that the canker of death, dark slavery’s stain,” is wiped out forever, and our glorious Union maintained—can we feel that the three hundred thousand graves where sleep the “Boys in White” were not made in vain.

“Noble souls! oh, how heroicWas the sacrifice they made,When the awful tide of treasonBy their own life-blood was stayed,And their manhood’s strength and gloryOn their country’s altar laid.“They have bought their country’s freedom,Sealed with blood and bitter pain;They have fought, and they have suffered,But their work was not in vain:Over all our rescued countryFloats the starry flag again.”

“Noble souls! oh, how heroicWas the sacrifice they made,When the awful tide of treasonBy their own life-blood was stayed,And their manhood’s strength and gloryOn their country’s altar laid.

“Noble souls! oh, how heroic

Was the sacrifice they made,

When the awful tide of treason

By their own life-blood was stayed,

And their manhood’s strength and glory

On their country’s altar laid.

“They have bought their country’s freedom,Sealed with blood and bitter pain;They have fought, and they have suffered,But their work was not in vain:Over all our rescued countryFloats the starry flag again.”

“They have bought their country’s freedom,

Sealed with blood and bitter pain;

They have fought, and they have suffered,

But their work was not in vain:

Over all our rescued country

Floats the starry flag again.”

But, as the rainbow of peace now spans the political horizon, may we not soon hope for the fulfilment of the prophetic words of the immortal Lincoln, in the closing paragraph of his first inaugural address? “The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heartand hearth-stone all over our broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when touched, as they surely will be, by the better angels of our nature.”

As a fitting and appropriate conclusion to this little book, and in keeping with the thoughts and incidents recorded in the last chapter, we insert the following poem, composed, as we are informed by the author, during the delivery of Mr. Bancroft’s celebrated eulogy, in the Hall of Representatives, on the first anniversary of the death of Mr. Lincoln:

ABRAHAM LINCOLN—ANNIVERSARY POEM.

BY U. J. BAXTER.

[Written April 14, 1866.]

What troubled woeSpeaks to a nation of her glories slain?What sudden grief tells of our glories slain?Whose paricidal blowHas struck her heart and filled her cup of pain?Why sound the bellsSo mournfully upon the air of night?Why volley forth the guns upon the night,With sudden peal that tellsOf darkling horror and of dire affright?The morn shall opeWith a dread tale that tells of dark eclipse—Of a dark deed that throws its black eclipseOn all a nation’s hope,And smites the joy that filled a nation’s lips.The waning lightGoes out in many a home as sinks the dayWhich lights a nation’s life—the glorious dayWhich made our joy so bright—A risen sun—a lump of feeble clay!“Dust unto dust!”Death calls—earth fades—Heaven opens full in view;A glorious Heaven meets his raptured view.No gates shall bar the just—His mighty soul in triumph enters through!Through tears and gloom—Through seas of blood—through stormy deeps of woe—He brought our land safe through its bleeding woe;Yet on his honored tomb,Emblems of peace, fair, fadeless lilies grow.For if the swordOwed to his hand its prestige and renown—Smote all his foes and won his high renown—His voice was but the wordThrough which his people’s voice and will were shown.His country’s cryWas to him as the mighty voice of God;His people’s voice was as the voice of God—Till called of Him on highTo glory’s courts, where angels never trod;And now we weep—Weep that a nation’s sins have laid him low—Weep that our proud crimes thus have brought him low—Grieve o’er his peaceful sleep,Wrought by the vile assassin’s vengeful blow.And well may tears,The agony of blood, and ever-during shame—Tears of remorse and never-ceasing shame,Flow on through endless years,And consecrate for aye his deathless name.The kingliest nameThat graced our living earth’s historic page—Gilding anew the old historic pageOf all her deeds of fame—The crowning soul—the glory of our age.Stricken and low!Aye, let us weep—weep for the guilt and crime—The ingrate sense—the coward guilt and crime!Dissolve in tears and woeThe darkling horrors of this monstrous time!His name breathe not,His thrice-accursèd name, whose brutal hand—Whose foul, polluted heart and brutal handA demon’s purpose wrought,And whelmed in grief our glad, rejoicing land.No fame be his!His crime too dark for name, too vile for scorn—A nameless deed of guilt, too vile for scorn—Oblivion’s dread abyssBe his abode, through ages still unborn!To Thee, Great God!We bow our stricken hearts, and lift our cry—Humble our prostrate souls and bring our cry;We feel Thy chastening rod—Oh! grant Thy loving favor ere we die!We see Thy hand!Through all these years Thy ruling hand was shown—In war’s dread flame Thy mighty hand was shown!Our torn and bleeding LandFelt Thy protecting arm around her thrown.Yet our proud heartWas still uplifted, full of vaunting boasts—Claiming the victory with our selfish boasts,Till vengeance’ sudden dartStruck down the mightiest from our chosen hosts.And then we saw—Saw through the tears and anguish of our pain—Our quickened flood of grief and blinding pain—The fiat of Thy lawThe joy and clamor of our pride restrain!Humbly we kneel!Oh! guide us still, our Father, through the sea!Our way has led us through a great Red Sea!And we have felt the sealOf blood’s baptizing—pensioned thus of Thee!Now through a yearOf unspent sorrow, still we gaze and weep;Still in our grief we backward gaze and weep—Still tremble in our fear,And shudder o’er fresh phantoms as we sleep.And still we lookForth to the future with a nameless dread—Still the dark problem fills our path with dread;Time’s yet unwritten bookHangs ponderous and fearful o’er our head.Our leader slain;Our greater Moses laid in smouldering dust,A nation’s heart bowed with him in the dust,We turn our hope in vainTo seek a chieftain worthy of his trust.No marvel here!Two kingliest come not haply born and twinned—Each age its one great soul, nor matched, nor twinned,Owning no mortal peer—So is his glory in our age unkinned.His mantle fell—On whom is not yet shown—yet sure its foldsAre buried not—its rich and loving foldsShall lay some blessed spellOn him who most his noble spirit holds.Great chieftain! rest!Our hearts shall go as pilgrims to thy tomb;Our spirits mourn and bless thy martyr tomb;We deem thy lot is blest;Our love shall rob our sorrow of its gloom.All coming timeShall ne’er despoil thy glory of its crown—Each year shall set its jewels in thy crown—Each day bell’s passing chimeShall add a tongue to speak thy just renown.

What troubled woeSpeaks to a nation of her glories slain?What sudden grief tells of our glories slain?Whose paricidal blowHas struck her heart and filled her cup of pain?

What troubled woe

Speaks to a nation of her glories slain?

What sudden grief tells of our glories slain?

Whose paricidal blow

Has struck her heart and filled her cup of pain?

Why sound the bellsSo mournfully upon the air of night?Why volley forth the guns upon the night,With sudden peal that tellsOf darkling horror and of dire affright?

Why sound the bells

So mournfully upon the air of night?

Why volley forth the guns upon the night,

With sudden peal that tells

Of darkling horror and of dire affright?

The morn shall opeWith a dread tale that tells of dark eclipse—Of a dark deed that throws its black eclipseOn all a nation’s hope,And smites the joy that filled a nation’s lips.

The morn shall ope

With a dread tale that tells of dark eclipse—

Of a dark deed that throws its black eclipse

On all a nation’s hope,

And smites the joy that filled a nation’s lips.

The waning lightGoes out in many a home as sinks the dayWhich lights a nation’s life—the glorious dayWhich made our joy so bright—A risen sun—a lump of feeble clay!

The waning light

Goes out in many a home as sinks the day

Which lights a nation’s life—the glorious day

Which made our joy so bright—

A risen sun—a lump of feeble clay!

“Dust unto dust!”Death calls—earth fades—Heaven opens full in view;A glorious Heaven meets his raptured view.No gates shall bar the just—His mighty soul in triumph enters through!

“Dust unto dust!”

Death calls—earth fades—Heaven opens full in view;

A glorious Heaven meets his raptured view.

No gates shall bar the just—

His mighty soul in triumph enters through!

Through tears and gloom—Through seas of blood—through stormy deeps of woe—He brought our land safe through its bleeding woe;Yet on his honored tomb,Emblems of peace, fair, fadeless lilies grow.

Through tears and gloom—

Through seas of blood—through stormy deeps of woe—

He brought our land safe through its bleeding woe;

Yet on his honored tomb,

Emblems of peace, fair, fadeless lilies grow.

For if the swordOwed to his hand its prestige and renown—Smote all his foes and won his high renown—His voice was but the wordThrough which his people’s voice and will were shown.

For if the sword

Owed to his hand its prestige and renown—

Smote all his foes and won his high renown—

His voice was but the word

Through which his people’s voice and will were shown.

His country’s cryWas to him as the mighty voice of God;His people’s voice was as the voice of God—Till called of Him on highTo glory’s courts, where angels never trod;

His country’s cry

Was to him as the mighty voice of God;

His people’s voice was as the voice of God—

Till called of Him on high

To glory’s courts, where angels never trod;

And now we weep—Weep that a nation’s sins have laid him low—Weep that our proud crimes thus have brought him low—Grieve o’er his peaceful sleep,Wrought by the vile assassin’s vengeful blow.

And now we weep—

Weep that a nation’s sins have laid him low—

Weep that our proud crimes thus have brought him low—

Grieve o’er his peaceful sleep,

Wrought by the vile assassin’s vengeful blow.

And well may tears,The agony of blood, and ever-during shame—Tears of remorse and never-ceasing shame,Flow on through endless years,And consecrate for aye his deathless name.

And well may tears,

The agony of blood, and ever-during shame—

Tears of remorse and never-ceasing shame,

Flow on through endless years,

And consecrate for aye his deathless name.

The kingliest nameThat graced our living earth’s historic page—Gilding anew the old historic pageOf all her deeds of fame—The crowning soul—the glory of our age.

The kingliest name

That graced our living earth’s historic page—

Gilding anew the old historic page

Of all her deeds of fame—

The crowning soul—the glory of our age.

Stricken and low!Aye, let us weep—weep for the guilt and crime—The ingrate sense—the coward guilt and crime!Dissolve in tears and woeThe darkling horrors of this monstrous time!

Stricken and low!

Aye, let us weep—weep for the guilt and crime—

The ingrate sense—the coward guilt and crime!

Dissolve in tears and woe

The darkling horrors of this monstrous time!

His name breathe not,His thrice-accursèd name, whose brutal hand—Whose foul, polluted heart and brutal handA demon’s purpose wrought,And whelmed in grief our glad, rejoicing land.

His name breathe not,

His thrice-accursèd name, whose brutal hand—

Whose foul, polluted heart and brutal hand

A demon’s purpose wrought,

And whelmed in grief our glad, rejoicing land.

No fame be his!His crime too dark for name, too vile for scorn—A nameless deed of guilt, too vile for scorn—Oblivion’s dread abyssBe his abode, through ages still unborn!

No fame be his!

His crime too dark for name, too vile for scorn—

A nameless deed of guilt, too vile for scorn—

Oblivion’s dread abyss

Be his abode, through ages still unborn!

To Thee, Great God!We bow our stricken hearts, and lift our cry—Humble our prostrate souls and bring our cry;We feel Thy chastening rod—Oh! grant Thy loving favor ere we die!

To Thee, Great God!

We bow our stricken hearts, and lift our cry—

Humble our prostrate souls and bring our cry;

We feel Thy chastening rod—

Oh! grant Thy loving favor ere we die!

We see Thy hand!Through all these years Thy ruling hand was shown—In war’s dread flame Thy mighty hand was shown!Our torn and bleeding LandFelt Thy protecting arm around her thrown.

We see Thy hand!

Through all these years Thy ruling hand was shown—

In war’s dread flame Thy mighty hand was shown!

Our torn and bleeding Land

Felt Thy protecting arm around her thrown.

Yet our proud heartWas still uplifted, full of vaunting boasts—Claiming the victory with our selfish boasts,Till vengeance’ sudden dartStruck down the mightiest from our chosen hosts.

Yet our proud heart

Was still uplifted, full of vaunting boasts—

Claiming the victory with our selfish boasts,

Till vengeance’ sudden dart

Struck down the mightiest from our chosen hosts.

And then we saw—Saw through the tears and anguish of our pain—Our quickened flood of grief and blinding pain—The fiat of Thy lawThe joy and clamor of our pride restrain!

And then we saw—

Saw through the tears and anguish of our pain—

Our quickened flood of grief and blinding pain—

The fiat of Thy law

The joy and clamor of our pride restrain!

Humbly we kneel!Oh! guide us still, our Father, through the sea!Our way has led us through a great Red Sea!And we have felt the sealOf blood’s baptizing—pensioned thus of Thee!

Humbly we kneel!

Oh! guide us still, our Father, through the sea!

Our way has led us through a great Red Sea!

And we have felt the seal

Of blood’s baptizing—pensioned thus of Thee!

Now through a yearOf unspent sorrow, still we gaze and weep;Still in our grief we backward gaze and weep—Still tremble in our fear,And shudder o’er fresh phantoms as we sleep.

Now through a year

Of unspent sorrow, still we gaze and weep;

Still in our grief we backward gaze and weep—

Still tremble in our fear,

And shudder o’er fresh phantoms as we sleep.

And still we lookForth to the future with a nameless dread—Still the dark problem fills our path with dread;Time’s yet unwritten bookHangs ponderous and fearful o’er our head.

And still we look

Forth to the future with a nameless dread—

Still the dark problem fills our path with dread;

Time’s yet unwritten book

Hangs ponderous and fearful o’er our head.

Our leader slain;Our greater Moses laid in smouldering dust,A nation’s heart bowed with him in the dust,We turn our hope in vainTo seek a chieftain worthy of his trust.

Our leader slain;

Our greater Moses laid in smouldering dust,

A nation’s heart bowed with him in the dust,

We turn our hope in vain

To seek a chieftain worthy of his trust.

No marvel here!Two kingliest come not haply born and twinned—Each age its one great soul, nor matched, nor twinned,Owning no mortal peer—So is his glory in our age unkinned.

No marvel here!

Two kingliest come not haply born and twinned—

Each age its one great soul, nor matched, nor twinned,

Owning no mortal peer—

So is his glory in our age unkinned.

His mantle fell—On whom is not yet shown—yet sure its foldsAre buried not—its rich and loving foldsShall lay some blessed spellOn him who most his noble spirit holds.

His mantle fell—

On whom is not yet shown—yet sure its folds

Are buried not—its rich and loving folds

Shall lay some blessed spell

On him who most his noble spirit holds.

Great chieftain! rest!Our hearts shall go as pilgrims to thy tomb;Our spirits mourn and bless thy martyr tomb;We deem thy lot is blest;Our love shall rob our sorrow of its gloom.

Great chieftain! rest!

Our hearts shall go as pilgrims to thy tomb;

Our spirits mourn and bless thy martyr tomb;

We deem thy lot is blest;

Our love shall rob our sorrow of its gloom.

All coming timeShall ne’er despoil thy glory of its crown—Each year shall set its jewels in thy crown—Each day bell’s passing chimeShall add a tongue to speak thy just renown.

All coming time

Shall ne’er despoil thy glory of its crown—

Each year shall set its jewels in thy crown—

Each day bell’s passing chime

Shall add a tongue to speak thy just renown.

Washington, D. C.

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