THE PATRIOT MARTYR.
Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States, assassinated April, 1865.
WHAT mean these startling bursts of woe,
That echo our green hills along?
A nation's tears—why should they flow?
But yesterday the strains of song
And triumph pealed on every breeze,
That wafted freshness o'er the earth,
Bringing, with spring, new promises
Of a free, loyal country's birth.
That echo our green hills along?
A nation's tears—why should they flow?
But yesterday the strains of song
And triumph pealed on every breeze,
That wafted freshness o'er the earth,
Bringing, with spring, new promises
Of a free, loyal country's birth.
What mean they, the sad, drooping eye?
The compress'd lip? The sorrowing look?
Hand clasping hand so silently?
Voice answering voice, with sobbing shook?
Why, scarcely hushed, their chimes so deep,
Of joy upon the ravished ear,
Wail out the bells in tones that weep,
Curdling the listener's blood to hear?
The compress'd lip? The sorrowing look?
Hand clasping hand so silently?
Voice answering voice, with sobbing shook?
Why, scarcely hushed, their chimes so deep,
Of joy upon the ravished ear,
Wail out the bells in tones that weep,
Curdling the listener's blood to hear?
Those speaking drops, the tears that fall
Unchecked from tender woman's eye,
Nor shame the manliest cheek of all,
Flow, that a friend so loved should die—
While black-draped flag at half-mast hung,
Gives token of a people's grief,
And muffled bells, with mournful tongue,
Toll for the Nation's honored Chief.
Unchecked from tender woman's eye,
Nor shame the manliest cheek of all,
Flow, that a friend so loved should die—
While black-draped flag at half-mast hung,
Gives token of a people's grief,
And muffled bells, with mournful tongue,
Toll for the Nation's honored Chief.
What, though when household forms decay,
The thorns of anguish keener press,
Revealing in the torturing ray
To every heart its bitterness,
Yet, from stern Death's remorseless bow,
Never before was arrow sent
Like this, so fraught with wide-spread woe,
Which martyred our loved President.
The thorns of anguish keener press,
Revealing in the torturing ray
To every heart its bitterness,
Yet, from stern Death's remorseless bow,
Never before was arrow sent
Like this, so fraught with wide-spread woe,
Which martyred our loved President.
Loved by the good and true, his fame
Enshrines itself in every heart
Where honor's uncorrupted name
In simple freshness shares a part—
Loved by the slave, whose stifled prayer
Came sighing up for liberty,
And pleading, gained assurance there,
From one great soul that he was free.
Enshrines itself in every heart
Where honor's uncorrupted name
In simple freshness shares a part—
Loved by the slave, whose stifled prayer
Came sighing up for liberty,
And pleading, gained assurance there,
From one great soul that he was free.
Loved by the soldier witness him
Whose grateful voice was upward sent
From battle-field, with eye grown dim
In death, "God bless the President,"—
Loved most by those who knew him best,
And winning hearts where'er he moved,
His eulogy in loyal breast,
"We feared him not, we only loved."
Whose grateful voice was upward sent
From battle-field, with eye grown dim
In death, "God bless the President,"—
Loved most by those who knew him best,
And winning hearts where'er he moved,
His eulogy in loyal breast,
"We feared him not, we only loved."
With him our cherished visions fell,
We trusted that it had been he
Who should redeem our Israel,
And set us first among the free—
But in His sight who knoweth best,
His life-work has been fully done,
And to the Father's promised rest,
We yield our Nation's noblest one.
We trusted that it had been he
Who should redeem our Israel,
And set us first among the free—
But in His sight who knoweth best,
His life-work has been fully done,
And to the Father's promised rest,
We yield our Nation's noblest one.
Eyes dimmed with tears are raised to Heaven,
Hands wrung in anguish lifted up,
Hearts bleeding, and with terror riven,
Anchor on high their only hope,
That He, by whose permission, comes
Sorrow and joy on either hand,
Will pilot safely through the storm
To peaceful port, our stricken land.
Hands wrung in anguish lifted up,
Hearts bleeding, and with terror riven,
Anchor on high their only hope,
That He, by whose permission, comes
Sorrow and joy on either hand,
Will pilot safely through the storm
To peaceful port, our stricken land.