Chapter 9

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 call Thrilling the heart to life more full, more true.

IN TOKEN OF RESPECT

_Translation from Latin verses_

From humble 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.

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

ENGLAND'S SORROW

_From London Fun_

The hand 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 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.

At ten 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.

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.

THE FUNERAL HYMN OF LINCOLN

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."

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 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 died May live forevermore.

Harriet McEwen 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

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 lies In fear of God, and charity for man;

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 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.

This car 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.

Richard Henry Stoddard in 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 LINCOLN

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, And leave your muskets on the wall; Your country needs you now Beside the forge, the plow!

(When Justice shall unsheathe her brand-- If Mercy may not stay her hand, Nor would we have it so-- She must direct the blow!)

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!

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 page The virtues shall enroll Of that Paternal Soul.

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 the _North American Review_ and his poems published therein gained him an enviable reputation, and reflected great credit upon him.

THE DEATH OF LINCOLN

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 land That shook with horror at thy fall.

Thy task is done; the bond is free-- We bear thee to an honored grave, Whose noblest monument shall be The broken fetters of the slave.

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.

At the 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.

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:

ODE

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.

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 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 toil Proudly in his native soil; Crowned with honor, to his rest Bear the prophet of the West.

Lucy Larcom was 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.

TOLLING

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! Was it, O man beloved, Was it thy funeral only Over the land that moved?

The remains of President Lincoln lay in state in the City Hall, New York, from noon April 24 to noon April 25, 1865. Visitors were admitted to view the remains, passing through the Hall two abreast. Singing societies sang dirges in the rotunda the night through.

Richard Storrs Willis was born in Boston, Massachusetts, February 10, 1819, was graduated at Yale in 1841, and adopted literature as his profession. He has published musical and other poems; has edited the _New York Musical World_ and _Once a Week_, and contributed also to current literature. He wrote the following:

REQUIEM OF LINCOLN

Now wake the requiem's solemn moan, For him whose patriot task is done! A nation's heart stands still today With horror, o'er his martyred clay!

O, God of Peace, repress the ire, Which fills our souls with vengeful fire! Vengeance is Thine--and sovereign might, Alone, can such a crime requite!

Farewell, thou good and guileless heart! The manliest tears for thee must start! E'en those at times who blamed thee here, Now deeply sorrow o'er thy bier.

O, Jesus, grant him sweet repose, Who, like Thee, seemed to love his foes! Those foes, like Thine, their wrath to spend, Have slain their best, their firmest friend.

The funeral train bearing the remains of President Lincoln reached Buffalo, New York, on Thursday morning, the 27th of April. The body was taken from the funeral car and borne by soldiers up to St. James' Hall, where it was placed under a crape canopy, extending from the ceiling to the floor. The Buffalo St. Cecilia Society sang with deep pathos the dirge "Rest, Spirit, Rest," the society then placed an elegantly formed harp, made of choice white flowers, at the head of the coffin, as a tribute from them to the honored dead. The public were admitted to view the remains, and the following day the remains reached Cleveland, Ohio.

James Nicoll Johnston was born in Ardee, County Donegal, Ireland. When two years of age the family moved to Cashelmore, Sheephaven Bay, County Donegal. In 1847 they moved to America. He was then between fifteen and sixteen years of age. In 1848 they settled at Buffalo, New York, which has been his home until the present time.

He has published two editions of _Donegal Memories_, also two editions of _Donegal Memories and Other Poems_, and a volume of Buffalo verse collected by him under the title of _Poets and Poetry of Buffalo_. He assisted in collections of Buffalo local literature, also devoted much time to the production of publications of a philanthropic nature.

REQUIEM

Bear him to his Western home, Whence he came four years ago; Not beneath some Eastern dome, But where Freedom's airs may come, Where the prairie grasses grow, To the friends who loved him so,

Take him to his quiet rest; Toll the bell and fire the gun; He who served his Country best, He whom millions loved and bless'd, Now has fame immortal won; Rack of brain and heart is done.

Shed thy tears, O April rain, O'er the tomb wherein he sleeps! Wash away the bloody stain! Drape the skies in grief, O rain! Lo! a nation with thee weeps, Grieving o'er her martyred slain.

To the people whence he came, Bear him gently back again, Greater his than victor's fame: His is now a sainted name; Never ruler had such gain-- Never people had such pain.

Oliver Wendell Holmes, born in Cambridge, Mass., August 29, 1809. To him belongs the credit of saving the frigate Constitution from destruction, by a poem--_Aye, Tear the Battered Ensign Down_. He died August 7, 1894.

SERVICES IN MEMORY OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN

(_City of Boston, June 1, 1865_)

O Thou of soul and sense and breath, The ever-present Giver, Unto Thy mighty angel, death, All flesh Thou didst deliver; What most we cherish, we resign, For life and death alike are Thine, Who reignest Lord forever!

Our hearts lie buried in the dust With him, so true and tender, The patriot's stay, the people's trust, The shield of the offender; Yet every murmuring voice is still, As, bowing to Thy sovereign will, Our best loved we surrender.

Dear Lord, with pitying eye behold This martyr generation, Which Thou, through trials manifold, Art showing Thy salvation! O let the blood by murder spilt Wash out Thy stricken children's guilt, And sanctify our Nation!

Be Thou Thy orphaned Israel's friend, Forsake Thy people never, In one our broken many blend, That none again may sever! Hear us, O Father, while we raise With trembling lips our song of praise, And bless Thy name forever!

William Allen, D.D., born 1784, died 1868. Graduated at Harvard, 1802. President Dartmouth College, 1816-1819, Bowdoin College, 1820-1839. He was the father of American Biography, published various volumes of poems; as a philologist, he contributed many thousands of words and definitions to Webster and Worcester's dictionaries. He was leader of the American delegation to the National Peace Congress at Versailles in 1849.

SPRINGFIELD'S WELCOME TO LINCOLN

Lincoln! thy country's father, hail! We bid thee welcome, but bewail; Welcome unto thy chosen home-- Triumphant, glorious, dost thou come.

Before the enemy struck the blow That laid thee in a moment low, God gave thy wish: It was to see Our Union safe, our country free.

A country where the gospel truth Shall reach the hearts of age and youth, And move unchained, in majesty, A model land of liberty!

When Jacob's bones, from Egypt borne, Regained their home, the people mourn; Great mourning then at Ephron's cave, Both Abraham's and Isaac's grave.

Far greater is the mourning now; For our land one emblem wide of woe; And where thy coffin car appears Do not the people throng in tears?

Thy triumph of a thousand miles, Like eastern conqueror with his spoils-- A million hearts thy captives led, All weeping for their chieftain dead.

Thy chariot, moved with eagle speed Without the aid of prancing steed, Has brought thee to that destined tomb; Springfield, thy home, will give thee room.