President Lincoln's Funeral.
Language bled through broken heart-threads,
Lips had nothing left to say.
Yet there was a marble sorrow
In each still face, chiseled deep;
Something more than words could utter,
Something more than tears could weep.
Lips had nothing left to say.
Yet there was a marble sorrow
In each still face, chiseled deep;
Something more than words could utter,
Something more than tears could weep.
Selfishly the nation mourned him,
Mourned its chieftain and its friend;
Eye no traitor mist could darken,
Arm no traitor power could bend;
Heart that gathered the true pulses
Of the land's indignant veins,
And, with their tempestuous spurning,
Broke the slave's tear-rusted chains:
Heart that tied its iron fibers
Round the Union's starry band;
Martyr's heart, that upward beating,
Broke on hate's assassin hand!
Oh! the land he loved will miss him,
Miss hint in its hour of need!
Mourns the nation for the nation
Till its tear-drops inward bleed.
There is one whose life will mourn him,
With a deep, unselfish woe;
One who owned him chief and master
Ere the nation named him so.
Mourned its chieftain and its friend;
Eye no traitor mist could darken,
Arm no traitor power could bend;
Heart that gathered the true pulses
Of the land's indignant veins,
And, with their tempestuous spurning,
Broke the slave's tear-rusted chains:
Heart that tied its iron fibers
Round the Union's starry band;
Martyr's heart, that upward beating,
Broke on hate's assassin hand!
Oh! the land he loved will miss him,
Miss hint in its hour of need!
Mourns the nation for the nation
Till its tear-drops inward bleed.
There is one whose life will mourn him,
With a deep, unselfish woe;
One who owned him chief and master
Ere the nation named him so.
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