Chapter 11

Yet whoso might pierce the guise Of mirth in the man we mourn, Would mark, and with grieved surprise, All the great soul had borne, In the piteous lines, and the kind, sad eyes So dreadfully wearied and worn.

And we trusted (the last dread page Once turned, of our Dooms-day Scroll), To have seen him, sunny of soul, In a cheery, grand old age.

But, Father, 'tis well with thee! And since ever, when God draws nigh, Some grief for the good must be, 'Twas well, even so to die,--

'Mid the thunder of Treason's fall, The yielding of haughty town, The crashing of cruel wall, The trembling of tyrant crown!

The ringing of hearth and pavement To the clash of falling chains,-- The centuries of enslavement Dead, with their blood-bought gains!

And through trouble weary and long, Well hadst thou seen the way, Leaving the State so strong It did not reel for a day.

And even in death couldst give A token for Freedom's strife-- A proof how republics live, And not by a single life,

But the Right Divine of man, And the many, trained to be free,-- And none, since the world began, Ever was mourned like thee.

Dost thou feel it, O noble Heart! (So grieved and so wronged below), From the rest wherein thou art? Do they see it, those patient eyes? Is there heed in the happy skies For tokens of world-wide woe?

The Land's great lamentations, The mighty mourning of cannon The myriad flags half-mast-- The late remorse of the nations, Grief from Volga to Shannon! (Now they know thee at last.)

How, from gray Niagara's shore To Canaveral's surfy shoal-- From the rough Atlantic roar To the long Pacific roll-- For bereavement and for dole, Every cottage wears its weed, White as thine own pure soul, And black as the traitor deed.

How, under a nation's pall, The dust so dear in our sight To its home on the prairie passed,-- The leagues of funeral, The myriads, morn and night, Pressing to look their last.

Nor alone the State's Eclipse; But tears in hard eyes gather-- And on rough and bearded lips, Of the regiments and the ships-- "Oh, our dear Father!"

And methinks of all the million That looked on the dark dead face, 'Neath its sable-plumed pavilion, The crone of a humbler race Is saddest of all to think on, And the old swart lips that said, Sobbing, "Abraham Lincoln! Oh, he is dead, he is dead!"

Hush! let our heavy souls To-day be glad; for again The stormy music swells and rolls, Stirring the hearts of men.

And under the Nation's Dome, They've guarded so well and long, Our boys come marching home, Two hundred thousand strong.

All in the pleasant month of May, With war-worn colors and drums, Still through the livelong summer's day, Regiment, regiment comes.

Like the tide, yesty and barmy, That sets on a wild lee-shore, Surge the ranks of an army Never reviewed before!

Who shall look on the like again, Or see such host of the brave? A mighty River of marching men Rolls the Capital through-- Rank on rank, and wave on wave, Of bayonet-crested blue!

How the chargers neigh and champ, (Their riders weary of camp), With curvet and with caracole!-- The cavalry comes with thunderous tramp, And the cannons heavily roll.

And ever, flowery and gay, The Staff sweeps on in a spray Of tossing forelocks and manes; But each bridle-arm has a weed Of funeral, black as the steed That fiery Sheridan reins.

Grandest of mortal sights The sun-browned ranks to view-- The Colors ragg'd in a hundred fights, And the dusty Frocks of Blue!

And all day, mile on mile, With cheer, and waving, and smile, The war-worn legions defile Where the nation's noblest stand; And the Great Lieutenant looks on, With the Flower of a rescued Land,-- For the terrible work is done, And the Good Fight is won For God and for Fatherland.

So, from the fields they win, Our men are marching home, A million are marching home! To the cannon's thundering din, And banners on mast and dome,-- And the ships come sailing in With all their ensigns dight, As erst for a great sea-fight.

Let every color fly, Every pennon flaunt in pride; Wave, Starry Flag, on high! Float in the sunny sky, Stream o'er the stormy tide! For every stripe of stainless hue, And every star in the field of blue, Ten thousand of the brave and true Have laid them down and died.

And in all our pride to-day We think, with a tender pain, Of those so far away They will not come home again.

And our boys had fondly thought, To-day, in marching by, From the ground so dearly bought, And the fields so bravely fought, To have met their Father's eye.

But they may not see him in place, Nor their ranks be seen of him; We look for the well-known face, And the splendor is strangely dim.

Perish?--who was it said Our Leader had passed away? Dead? Our President dead? He has not died for a day!

We mourn for a little breath Such as, late or soon, dust yields; But the Dark Flower of Death Blooms in the fadeless fields.

We looked on a cold, still brow, But Lincoln could yet survive; He never was more alive, Never nearer than now.

For the pleasant season found him, Guarded by faithful hands, In the fairest of Summer Lands; With his own brave Staff around him, There our President stands.

There they are all at his side, The noble hearts and true, That did all men might do-- Then slept, with their swords and died.

And around--(for there can cease This earthly trouble)--they throng, The friends that have passed in peace, The foes that have seen their wrong.

(But, a little from the rest, With sad eyes looking down, And brows of softened frown, With stern arms on the chest, Are two, standing abreast-- Stonewall and Old John Brown.)

But the stainless and the true, These by their President stand, To look on his last review, Or march with the old command.

And lo! from a thousand fields, From all the old battle-haunts, A greater Army than Sherman wields, A grander Review than Grant's!

Gathered home from the grave, Risen from sun and rain-- Rescued from wind and wave Out of the stormy main-- The Legions of our Brave Are all in their lines again!

Many a stout Corps that went, Full-ranked, from camp and tent, And brought back a brigade; Many a brave regiment, That mustered only a squad.

The lost battalions, That, when the fight went wrong, Stood and died at their guns,-- The stormers steady and strong,

With their best blood that bought Scrap, and ravelin, and wall,-- The companies that fought Till a corporal's guard was all.

Many a valiant crew, That passed in battle and wreck,-- Ah, so faithful and true! They died on the bloody deck, They sank in the soundless blue.

All the loyal and bold That lay on a soldier's bier,-- The stretchers borne to the rear, The hammocks lowered to the hold.

The shattered wreck we hurried, In death-fight, from deck and port,-- The Blacks that Wagner buried-- That died in the Bloody Fort!

Comrades of camp and mess, Left, as they lay, to die, In the battle's sorest stress, When the storm of fight swept by,-- They lay in the Wilderness, Ah, where did they not lie?

In the tangled swamp they lay, They lay so still on the sward!-- They rolled in the sick-bay, Moaning their lives away-- They flushed in the fevered ward.

They rotted in Libby yonder, They starved in the foul stockade-- Hearing afar the thunder Of the Union cannonade!

But the old wounds all are healed, And the dungeoned limbs are free,-- The Blue Frocks rise from the field, The Blue Jackets out of the sea.

They've 'scaped from the torture-den, They've broken the bloody sod, They're all come to life again!-- The Third of a Million men That died for Thee and for God!

A tenderer green than May The Eternal Season wears,-- The blue of our summer's day Is dim and pallid to theirs,-- The Horror faded away, And 'twas heaven all unawares!

Tents on the Infinite Shore! Flags in the azuline sky, Sails on the seas once more! To-day, in the heaven on high, All under arms once more!

The troops are all in their lines, The guidons flutter and play; But every bayonet shines, For all must march to-day.

What lofty pennons flaunt? What mighty echoes haunt, As of great guns, o'er the main? Hark to the sound again-- The Congress is all a-taunt! The Cumberland's manned again!

All the ships and their men Are in line of battle to-day,-- All at quarters, as when Their last roll thundered away,-- All at their guns, as then, For the Fleet salutes to-day.

The armies have broken camp On the vast and sunny plain, The drums are rolling again; With steady, measured tramp, They're marching all again.

With alignment firm and solemn, Once again they form In mighty square and column,-- But never for charge and storm.

The Old Flag they died under Floats above them on the shore, And on the great ships yonder The ensigns dip once more-- And once again the thunder Of the thirty guns and four!

In solid platoons of steel, Under heaven's triumphal arch, The long lines break and wheel-- And the word is, "Forward, march!"

The Colors ripple o'erhead, The drums roll up to the sky, And with martial time and tread The regiments all pass by-- The ranks of our faithful Dead, Meeting their President's eye.

With a soldier's quiet pride They smile o'er the perished pain, For their anguish was not vain-- For thee, O Father, we died! And we did not die in vain.

March on, your last brave mile! Salute him, Star and Lace, Form round him, rank and file, And look on the kind, rough face;

But the quaint and homely smile Has a glory and a grace It never had known erewhile-- Never, in time and space.

Close round him, hearts of pride! Press near him, side by side,-- Our Father is not alone! For the Holy Right ye died, And Christ, the Crucified, Waits to welcome His own.

TRIBUTES

A statesman of the school of sound common sense, and a philanthropist of the most practical type, a patriot without a superior--his monument is a country preserved.

_C. S. Harrington._

Now all men begin to see that the plain people, who at last came to love him and to lean upon his wisdom, and trust him absolutely, were altogether right, and that in deed and purpose he was earnestly devoted to the welfare of the whole country, and of all its inhabitants.

_R. B. Hayes._

ABRAHAM LINCOLN[19]

BY JOEL BENTON

Some opulent force of genius, soul, and race, Some deep life-current from far centuries Flowed to his mind, and lighted his sad eyes, And gave his name, among great names, high place.

But these are miracles we may not trace-- Nor say why from a source and lineage mean He rose to grandeur never dreamt or seen, Or told on the long scroll of history's space.

The tragic fate of one broad hemisphere Fell on stern days to his supreme control, All that the world and liberty held dear Pressed like a nightmare on his patient soul. Martyr beloved, on whom, when life was done, Fame looked, and saw another Washington!

[19] _By permission of the author._

ON THE LIFE-MASK OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN[20]

BY RICHARD WATSON GILDER

This bronze doth keep the very form and mold Of our great martyr's face. Yes, this is he: That brow all wisdom, all benignity; That human, humorous mouth; those cheeks that hold Like some harsh landscape all the summer's gold; That spirit fit for sorrow, as the sea For storms to beat on; the lone agony Those silent, patient lips too well foretold. Yes, this is he who ruled a world of men As might some prophet of the elder day-- Brooding above the tempest and the fray With deep-eyed thought and more than mortal ken. A power was his beyond the touch of art Or armed strength--his pure and mighty heart.

[20] _By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Company._

TRIBUTES

To him belongs the credit of having worked his way up from the humblest position an American freeman can occupy to the highest and most powerful, without losing, in the least, the simplicity and sincerity of nature which endeared him alike to the plantation slave and the metropolitan millionaire.

The most malignant party opposition has never been able to call in question the patriotism of his motives, or tarnish with the breath of suspicion the brightness of his spotless fidelity. Ambition did not warp, power corrupt, nor glory dazzle him.

_Warren H. Cudworth._

By his steady, enduring confidence in God, and in the complete ultimate success of the cause of God which is the cause of humanity, more than in any other way does he now speak to us, and to the nation he loved and served so well.

_P. D. Gurley._

Chieftain, farewell! The nation mourns thee. Mothers shall teach thy name to their lisping children. The youth of our land shall emulate thy virtues. Statesmen shall study thy record, and learn lessons of wisdom. Mute though thy lips be, yet they still speak. Hushed is thy voice, but its echoes of liberty are ringing through the world, and the sons of bondage listen with joy.

_Matthew Simpson._

LINCOLN

BY GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

Crown we our heroes with a holier wreath Than man e'er wore upon this side of death; Mix with their laurels deathless asphodels, And chime their pæans from the sacred bells! Nor in your prayers forget the martyred Chief, Fallen for the gospel of your own belief, Who, ere he mounted to the people's throne, Asked for your prayers, and joined in them his own. I knew the man. I see him, as he stands With gifts of mercy in his outstretched hands; A kindly light within his gentle eyes, Sad as the toil in which his heart grew wise; His lips half-parted with the constant smile That kindled truth, but foiled the deepest guile; His head bent forward, and his willing ear Divinely patient right and wrong to hear: Great in his goodness, humble in his state, Firm in his purpose, yet not passionate, He led his people with a tender hand, And won by love a sway beyond command, Summoned by lot to mitigate a time Frenzied with rage, unscrupulous with crime, He bore his mission with so meek a heart That Heaven itself took up his people's part; And when he faltered, helped him ere he fell, Eking his efforts out by miracle. No king this man, by grace of God's intent; No, something better, freeman,--President! A nature, modeled on a higher plan, Lord of himself, an inborn gentleman!

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

JAMES A. GARFIELD

In the great drama of the rebellion there were two acts. The first was the war, with its battles and sieges, its victories and defeats, its sufferings and tears. Just as the curtain was lifting on the second and final act, the restoration of peace and liberty, the evil spirit of the rebellion, in the fury of despair, nerved and directed the hand of an assassin to strike down the chief character in both. It was no one man who killed Abraham Lincoln; it was the embodied spirit of treason and slavery, inspired with fearful and despairing hate, that struck him down in the moment of the nation's supremest joy.

Sir, there are times in the history of men and nations when they stand so near the veil that separates mortals from the immortals, time from eternity, and men from God that they can almost hear the beatings and pulsations of the heart of the Infinite. Through such a time has this nation passed.

When two hundred and fifty thousand brave spirits passed from the field of honor, through that thin veil, to the presence of God, and when at last its parting folds admitted the martyr President to the company of those dead heroes of the Republic, the nation stood so near the veil that the whispers of God were heard by the children of men. Awe-stricken by his voice, the American people knelt in tearful reverence and made a solemn covenant with him and with each other that this nation should be saved from its enemies, that all its glories should be restored, and, on the ruins of slavery and treason, the temples of freedom and justice should be built, and should survive forever.

It remains for us, consecrated by that great event and under a covenant with God, to keep that faith, to go forward in the great work until it shall be completed. Following the lead of that great man, and obeying the high behests of God, let us remember that:

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment seat; Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on.

AN HORATIAN ODE[21]

BY RICHARD HENRY STODDARD

Not as when some great captain falls In battle, where his country calls, Beyond the struggling lines That push his dread designs

To doom, by some stray ball struck dead: Or in the last charge, at the head Of his determined men, Who must be victors then!

Nor as when sink the civic great, The safer pillars of the State, Whose calm, mature, wise words Suppress the need of swords!--

With no such tears as e'er were shed Above the noblest of our dead Do we to-day deplore The man that is no more!

Our sorrow hath a wider scope, Too strange for fear, too vast for hope,-- A wonder, blind and dumb, That waits--what is to come!

Not more astonished had we been If madness, that dark night, unseen, Had in our chambers crept, And murdered while we slept!

We woke to find a mourning earth-- Our Lares shivered on the hearth,-- To roof-tree fallen,--all That could affright, appall!

Such thunderbolts, in other lands, Have smitten the rod from royal hands, But spared, with us, till now, Each laurelled Cæsar's brow!

No Cæsar he, whom we lament, A man without a precedent, Sent it would seem, to do His work--and perish too!

Not by the weary cares of state, The endless tasks, which will not wait, Which, often done in vain, Must yet be done again:

Not in the dark, wild tide of war, Which rose so high, and rolled so far, Sweeping from sea to sea In awful anarchy:--

Four fateful years of mortal strife, Which slowly drained the nation's life, (Yet, for each drop that ran There sprang an armed man!)

Not then;--but when by measures meet,-- By victory, and by defeat,-- By courage, patience, skill, The people's fixed "We will!"

Had pierced, had crushed rebellion dead,-- Without a hand, without a head:-- At last, when all was well, He fell--O, how he fell!

The time,--the place,--the stealing shape,-- The coward shot,--the swift escape,-- The wife,--the widow's scream,-- It is a hideous dream!

A dream?--what means this pageant, then? These multitudes of solemn men, Who speak not when they meet, But throng the silent street?

The flags half-mast, that late so high Flaunted at each new victory? (The stars no brightness shed, But bloody looks the red!)

The black festoons that stretch for miles, And turn the streets to funeral aisles? (No house too poor to show The nation's badge of woe!)

The cannon's sudden, sullen boom,-- The bells that toll of death and doom,-- The rolling of the drums,-- The dreadful car that comes?

Cursed be the hand that fired the shot! The frenzied brain that hatched the plot! Thy country's father slain By thee, thou worse than Cain!

Tyrants have fallen by such as thou, And good hath followed--may it now! (God lets bad instruments Produce the best events.)

But he, the man we mourn to-day, No tyrant was: so mild a sway In one such weight who bore Was never known before!

Cool should be he, of balanced powers. The ruler of a race like ours, Impatient, headstrong, wild,-- The man to guide the child!

And this he was, who most unfit (So hard the sense of God to hit!) Did seem to fill his place. With such a homely face,--

Such rustic manners,--speech uncouth,-- (That somehow blundered out the truth!) Untried, untrained to bear The more than kingly care!

Ay! And his genius put to scorn The proudest in the purple born, Whose wisdom never grew To what, untaught, he knew--

The people, of whom he was one. No gentleman like Washington,-- (Whose bones, methinks, make room, To have him in their tomb!)

A laboring man, with horny hands, Who swung the axe, who tilled his lands, Who shrank from nothing new, But did as poor men do!

One of the people! Born to be Their curious epitome; To share, yet rise above Their shifting hate and love.

Common his mind (it seemed so then), His thought the thoughts of other men: Plain were his words, and poor-- But now they will endure!

No hasty fool, of stubborn will, But prudent, cautious, pliant, still; Who, since his work was good, Would do it, as he could.

Doubting, was not ashamed to doubt, And, lacking prescience, went without: Often appeared to halt, And was, of course, at fault:

Heard all opinions, nothing loth, And loving both sides, angered both: Was--not like justice, blind, But watchful, clement, kind.

No hero, this, of Roman mould; Nor like our stately sires of old: Perhaps he was not great-- But he preserved that State!

O honest face, which all men knew! O tender heart, but known to few! O wonder of the age, Cut off by tragic rage!

Peace! Let the long procession come, For hark!--the mournful, muffled drum-- The trumpet's wail afar,-- 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 wait To honor all they can The dust of that good man!

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!

Yes, let your tears, indignant, fall, But leave your muskets on the wall: Your country needs you now Beside the forge, the plough!