Chapter III: Canto II: “Hail, holy light!”—MILTON

“Paulo majora canamus.”—VIRGIL.

As, when some lone, half-foundered bark,
Pent up in Northern regions dark
’Twixt icebergs and the rocky shore,
Where wintry billows wildly roar;
Where howling winds around her rave
And ocean yawns with many a grave;
The awe-struck crew are dumb with fear,
And shudder at the danger near;
But when, their toils and dangers past,
They reach their long lost homes at last,
Their hearts rejoice in every breast,
And all enjoy the unwonted rest:—
As when some antiquarian sage,
Intent to read dame Nature’s page,
Through gloomy caverns threads his way,
Unmindful of the light of day,
And, only midst vile toads and snakes,
At length to sense of danger wakes;
Then hastens forth to cheer his sight
Once more, with God’s all-beauteous light;
So I, till lately doomed to mourn
Midst scenes of horror, joyful turn
To others of more pleasing hue,
Where worth and valor meet the view,
And in the patriot’s soul combine
To light it with a ray divine.
I bless the man whose soul disdains
To live by others’ toils and pains;
The bread procured by slavery’s groans
From tortured flesh and aching bones,
To him were bitter as the fruit
Whose tree in hell sends deep its root;
The usurer’s ill-got gains he spurns;
No widow through his grasping mourns;
For him no serfs turn up the soil,
No minions delve, no drudges toil;
But his own hands his wants supply,
God’s fount allays his thirst when dry;
His wife and children are arrayed
In garments their own hands have made;
No guilty jewels deck their brow,
Procured by means—no matter how.
His loyalty is pure and strong,
He loves his country, “right or wrong;”[g]
If foes assail, he will not pause
To cavil or discuss the cause;
Or load the noble with abuse,
And skulk with this or that excuse.
No, no, he scorns ignoble rest,
And as a patriot bares his breast,
The first in council, first in fight,
For God, his country, and the right.
For freedom he desires to live,
Which he to all would freely give;
And when at length he comes to die,
No frightful phantoms meet his eye;
Resigned to Heaven he yields his breath,
His kindred dust to dust beneath.
In such, through God’s most gracious plan,
Behold the Christian gentleman;
The true republican behold.
As in our Washington of old.
Yes, yes, in him we recognise
An “Israelite without disguise:”
And, Lincoln, thanks to heaven, we see
A second Washington in thee;
Raised up to save the ship of State,
And pilot it through danger’s gate;
And many a noble spirit born
To usher in a happier morn,
To light and cheer us on our way,
Through this dark night of wild dismay,
Roused by thy patriotic voice,
To serve their country, now rejoice.
A cloud was gathering o’er the sky,
And some perceived the danger nigh;
While others thought ’twould pass away,
Like mists before the approaching day.
But when the mighty storm, at length,
Burst forth in all its fearful strength;
Few were prepared to realize
The truth that seemed to paralyze
All hearts, and fill them with dismay,
At foul rebellion’s dread array,
In this our day, in this our land;
And scarcely could men understand,
That Freedom’s children could combine
Her sacred fane to undermine;
To stigmatize her name and birth,
And blot her record from the earth.
’Twas, as they thought, some frightful dream
Which dawn would scatter with its beam:
But when that wished-for dawn arose,
And shook them from disturbed repose;
When Sumter’s guns boomed on the ear,
Reality took place of fear:
And then a storm of grief and rage
Swept o’er the land, swept o’er the age:
The Nation shuddered to its core,
The shock was felt the wide world o’er;
Men roused themselves throughout the land,
To catch the word—the stern command.

And soon it flashed the wires along,
(Thy voice, Abe Lincoln, clear and strong;)
Which, quick as lightning’s rapid wing,
Was heard throughout the land to ring:

“Rise, children, rise, your country calls
To arms! or Freedom helpless falls;
Your Mother is assailed by foes,
Haste, haste, and ward from her the blows:
The assassin’s hand is on the knife,
And parricides assail her life!”

Thus called the watchman from the tower,
And millions answered in that hour;

“Lo! Father Abraham, we come,
Leave wife and children, house and home,
Leave social joys and friends refined,
Rend all the ties the soul can bind;
Our workshops and our farms we yield,
Our plowshares in the half-plowed field;
Our horses at the fence we tie,
And gird the sword upon the thigh,
And haste to meet the foe in strife,
And battle for the Nation’s life.”

Thus loyal men, on every side,
Sprang forth all o’er our nation wide,
And offered up their lives, their all,
As incense at their country’s call.
The fair sex felt the patriot flame
And to their country’s succor came;
And, careless of their own repose,
The part of the wise virgins chose.
The maiden bids her love, “good by,”
While the big tear drop dims her eye,
Which, yet, with haste she chides away,
Lest she some weakness might betray:
And, like the Spartan dame of yore,
When to her son the shield she bore,
Bade him return upon the same
A corpse, or else come back with fame,
The tender mother bids farewell,
To that sweet boy she loves so well;
And binding round his waist the sword,
Thus cheers his heart by deed and word:

“My only son, my darling boy,
’Twill fill your mother’s heart with joy,
To know this blade you nobly wield
For freedom, in the tented field;
Let honor guide you in the strife,
And yield it only with your life.”
And, as the fearful conflict neared,
Such scenes as follow oft appeared:

THE EVE BEFORE THE BATTLE.

’Twas the eve before the battle,
And the men had taken leave
Of their lovely wives and sweethearts
Who were left behind to grieve
And think upon the morrow,
What disasters might befall;
Hope flickered in each loving heart,
But fear prevailed with all,
Save one, a noble matron, who
The mournful silence broke,
And rising with heroic mien,
Thus to her sisters spoke:
“Seven brave sons I’ve borne with pain,
And nurtured at my breast;
I’ve loved them well—but better still
My country sore oppressed;
And when the sound of strife was heard
Preparing through the land,
To each of my brave boys I gave
A gun with mine own hand.
Oh joyful mother that I am,
They will not brook a slave!
For happy homes and altars free
They’re fighting with the brave;
They’re gone to join the patriot host
Encamped on yonder hill;
How proud I feel—the Pilgrims’ blood
Flows through my heroes still!
And, as we parted then as now,
My heart was free from pain;
“Come back free men to me,” I cried;
“Or never come again!”
Ye Mothers of America,
Come now, with me unite;
And should we find a recreant son
Returning from the fight,
Unbidden, without wound or scar,
Or wanting glory’s crown,
Let’s stone the craven wretch to death,
Or piecemeal hew him down.”

And, how the sires have stemmed the flood
That fills our land with grief and blood;
How well they bear the brunt of woe,
We learn from scenes like this below:
Not tales of fiction to appal,
But truths. Let one suffice for all!

There lives near Elgin, Illinois,
A man whose wealth, five noble boys,
Was all he had to cheer his age,
And soothe life’s closing pilgrimage;
The call was heard; and, one by one,
He sent them forth with sword and gun;
At Lexington his youngest fell,
And one at Shiloh by a shell:
A third at Pea Ridge lost his life,
With honor in that fearful strife;
At Fredericksburgh’s terrific fray,
A fourth was swept from light of day;
His wife, borne down by sorrow’s wave,
Found consolation—in the grave.
Of all his treasures one remained,
Which still the father’s hopes sustained:
Would Heaven this loved one soon restore,
To bless his aged eyes once more?
Alas! he too was doomed to sleep
In death, and leave his sire to weep.
At Murfreesboro he was shot;
His father mourned, for he was not!
But when the first rude pangs had passed,
And the cold grave received his last,
He thanked his Father in Heaven that he
Had thus been privileged to be
The sire of Martyrs for the Right,
Who fell in Freedom’s sacred fight.
His heavy loss he nobly bore,
And wished that God had given him more,
To offer at his country’s feet,
To make the sacrifice complete!
And hark that wild, yet glorious strain!
’Tis from the spirits of the slain;
Whose privilege it was to fall,
First victims, at their country’s call:

SONG OF THE SPIRITS.

Our Mother, oh, our Country dear!
We heard thy cry for aid,
And, rending every other tie,
Thy voice we have obeyed!

We left our plowshares in the field,
Our horses at the fence;
And, seizing weapons as we could,
We rushed to thy defense;

Unflinching or in limb or rank,
And fighting hand to hand,
We’ve found our death-blow on the spot
On which we took our stand.

Here gently rest we on the sod,
Fixed on high Heaven our glance;
Pierced, each, with honorable wounds,
And grasping gun or lance.

Our Mother, oh our country dear!
Our spirits now rejoice,
That we have found this gory bed,
Obedient to thy voice.

Oh, ’tis a glorious privilege
Thy chosen sons to be,
To pour our life-blood in the cause
Of Freedom and of thee!

That blood shall be the fruitful seed,
In fertile furrows cast,
Of deeds heroic to thy sons,
While Heaven and earth shall last;

And, like the seed by Cadmus sown,
In ages long gone by,
’Twill raise a host of armed men,
Whose glory will not die!

Oh, Brothers! would you honor us,
As to us seemeth right;
To us erect no monument,
No fulsome praise indite;

But, fight like men, as we have fought;
Meet death with fearless eye;
And thus our blood shall serve to tinge
The dawn of Liberty!

But, when the final hour had come,
Our braves should bid adieu to home;
Ah! there were partings which might wake
The soul to woe, and blanch the cheek;
For never more in converse sweet
Might kindred souls and glances meet:
Then, many a tender wife confessed
The anxious feelings of her breast;
And, as the fount of grief she woke,
Thus to her husband, sobbing spoke:

PARTING FOR THE BATTLE.

WIFE.

My husband, must we part? the battle rages;
With fell intent the rebel host engages,
And thou wilt fall untimely in the strife:
Think, think upon thy orphans wildly weeping
No hand to guard their waking hours or sleeping;
And oh, what pangs await thy widowed wife!

SOLDIER.

Dear wife, it grieves my soul to leave thee lonely;
Thee have I loved, Heaven witness, and thee only,
And these sweet treasures which our union bless;
But hark! our country on her brave sons calleth,
And if in her defense thy husband falleth,
Let this great glory soothe thy deep distress.

For, when once more our glorious flag is flying
O’er all the land, its envious foes defying,
Transcending e’en its ancient splendor’s pride;
Then, as the people cheer the emblem loudly,
Amongst the matrons thou canst stand up proudly
And say, “for this my noble husband died.”

And when to youth and womanhood upspringing
Our little ones shall hear the echoes ringing
With deeds embalmed in fame’s immortal story;
Then shall their bosoms with proud feelings swelling
Find consolation for their loss by telling;
“Our honored father shares this fame and glory.”

WIFE.

But thou, meantime, bereft of sense and feeling,
Shalt sleep, death’s cold embrace thy limbs congealing;
Thy home, thy love, thy country, all forgot;
Unknown to thee the glory of the nation—
Unseen its splendor, its regeneration;
All these will be to thee as they were not!

SOLDIER.

’Tis true death drowns man’s sense in Lethe’s slumber;
And ages pass without or note or number,
Yet love of home and country cannot die;
My spirit from yon beautiful Elysian
Rapt in the glory of ecstatic vision,
The loved of earth shall ever hover nigh.

The brightest Angels round the throne eternal,
Gaze on no vision purer, more supernal,
Than Liberty by human virtue won:
The highest throne on God’s right hand in Heaven
To him who for his country falls is given;
The Hero’s death is endless life begun!

But soon the last “adieus” were said,
The kiss exchanged, the tear-drop shed,
And then our heroes, girt for fight,
Marched forth to battle in their might:
Like a broad river on the plain
That sweeps majestic to the main,
Now swelled by many a creek and rill
From mountain side or verdant hill,
To which all barriers in its course,
But add fresh fury to its force;
So, fierce, resistless, sweeps along
Our Army’s torrent vast and strong,
Collecting strength and power each day
By obstacles thrown in its way,
Till all surmounted, land and sea
Shall bail the flag of Liberty.
Of all that patriotic host
Say, which should he extolled the most?
Since all with equal zeal awoke,
To save us from the despot’s yoke.
From Maine to California’s shore,
We hear the wild, tumultuous roar:
From the great river of the North,
To where Ohio sallies forth
To join the Mississippi’s tide,
On which our commerce free must ride;
From Mississippi to the plains,
Where miners delve for golden grains,
All o’er this Northern continent,
So lately smiling in content,
We hear the drums and bugles sound,
The tramp of squadrons o’er the ground,
All ready for the glorious fight,
For God, for Liberty and Right!
And as they swiftly march along,
They wake the echoes with this song;

“DELENDA EST CARTHAGO.”

When Rome’s great rival in the past,
The mighty Carthage, reared her head,
And o’er the earth her poison spread,
Man’s brightest hopes to blast;
The Patriot raised this earnest cry,
Pleading for right and Liberty,
“Delenda est Carthago.”

When Hannibal the Alpine height
O’erleapt, and swept the Italian plain,
And gained the field of Thrasymene,
And Cannæ’s dreadful fight;
Undaunted midst the wild uproar,
That voice rose louder than before,
“Delenda est Carthago.”

This was the watchword of our sires,
When Britain, modern Carthage, tried
To drown them in a crimson tide,
Midst tribulation’s fires:
Threats, tortures, blood, were all in vain,
For still they cried unmoved by pain,
“Delenda est Carthago.”

At Lexington and Bunker Hill,
Quebec, Long Island, Valley Forge,
They bravely bore the brunt and scourge,
Nor shrank beneath the ill;
Firm in the path of right they trod,
Nor vainly vowed to Freedom’s God,
“Delenda est Carthago.”

For this our chieftains drew the sword,
Our glorious heroes bled and died,
For this men’s souls were sorely tried;
The Nation pledged its word,
That wheresoe’er our flag unfurled
The hope of freedom to the world,
“Delenda est Carthago.”

What though one foe was prostrate laid,
Another lifts its snaky head
Which slept but was not dead;
Sheer weakness its assault delayed,
Till warmed by the breath of Liberty
It coils to strike—Its sentence be
“Delenda est Carthago.”

Yes! “Carthage must be swept away,”
That stronghold of the tyrant race,
And Freedom must resume her place
We, modern Romans, say;
Let echo waft this cry afar,
Whate’er the price in peace or war,
“Delenda est Carthago.”

The fiat has gone forth—the storm
Evokes the millions with its sound,
Who yon dear Union flag surround,
And point to slavery’s form;
Then, drowning the deep thunder’s roar,
They swell the cry from shore to shore,
“Delenda est Carthago.”

What strongholds ’neath their torrent fell,
Let Donelson and Henry tell;
In Roanoake, Orleans, Newberne,
The rebels may a lesson learn;
Where Butler, Farragut, Burnside,
Cut short Secessia’s regal pride:
And they must gnash their teeth and wail,
When Shiloh, Corinth, tell their tale.
Their hordes to meet our few how weak
At Pea Ridge, and at Wilson’s Creek;
Where Curtis and brave Siegel taught
A lesson with much wisdom fraught.
But Springfield gave us cause to weep;
There Lyon laid him down to sleep.
The rebels how unfit to cope,
At Island Number Ten, with Pope!
Their “chivalry” how much at fault,
When Foote joined in the fierce assault!
Nor can the treachery and shame
Of others tarnish Pope’s fair name;
Since he was left almost alone,
To cope with Lee at famed Bull Run,
Where “Mac” and Porter checked his speed,
Withheld their aid in time of need,
And dashed the victory from his lips,
To save their rushlight from eclipse.
At Champion Hill we thinned their host,
When we had won Arkansas Post;
Where brave McClernand dealt the foe
Their great rebuff—most fatal blow;
To whom the Country should accord
Fair play at least,—a cheap reward,—
Discard ingratitude, mistrust,
Be noble, generous, and just.
At Antietam “brave little Mac”
The rebels swept; but, being slack
To follow up the hot pursuit,
The foe had leisure to recruit.
“Mac” might have cut them off with ease;
But “that was not his game,” quoth Keys.[h]
Let Hudson Port and Vicksburg heights
Be, henceforth, safety’s beacon lights,
To warn the prudent off the rocks,
Where rebel craft have met such shocks:
And, most tremendous of them all,
Let Gettysburg their souls appal;
Where rebel hordes, misled by Lee,
Were forced by Meade to turn and flee;
And where by right their routed mass
Should have received their “coup de grace.”
But this great glory was in store
For those who triumphed oft before.
From Winchester and Fisher’s Hill
Brave Sheridan (our glorious Phil.)
The Shenandoah swept like fate,
Where Early found himself too late;
And whence his successor, Longstreet,
Was forced to beat a long retreat,
Sans guns, sans baggage, and sans breath,
Glad to escape pursuing Death!
Then, at Five Forks, he dealt the blow
That laid the rebel squadrons low;
Bearded the lion in his den,
Defeating Lee and all his men;
Whose skill and courage could not save
His cause from its predestined grave;
Who fought till, overpowered at length,
He yielded to superior strength.
And at Atlanta, Sherman’s steel
The rebels swept and made them reel;
Annihilated boastful Hood,
And drowned his hordes in seas of blood.
He swept Savannah on his way,
Till Charleston became his prey,
(That den of rattlesnakes and Copps,)
Nor even there the torrent stops!
It rolls along the Southern plain,
Till all resistance is in vain;
Holds Johnston’s barbarous hordes at bay,
Till Grant, at Richmond, wins the day;
Which ’neath his strokes is forced to yield,
And Lee and Davis quit the field:
Then Johnston too capitulates,
And bows to justice and the fates;
Rebellion’s suns thus set in night
Extinguish every lesser light!
Grant, Sheridan, and Sherman pause
Then only when the Union cause
Is crowned with victory’s success:
Grant promised and would give no less,
Should he be forced, in reason’s spite,
“All summer on this line to fight.”
All honor to the glorious three
Who conquered Johnston, Hood, and Lee,
And to that brave,—that patriot band,
Which quelled rebellion in our land!
Hail to the chief whose master-mind
The moves strategic so combined
That every check was big with fate,
Foreshadowing the grand checkmate!
And hark! the fearful struggle o’er,
Their praise resounds from shore to shore;
The bells ring out a merry peal,
All hearts the inspiration feel;
The drums and cymbals joyful sound,
Flags wave, and banners stream around;
The fair their pathway strew with flowers,
And bouquets rain in fragrant showers;
Where’er they go the bonfires blaze,
And cannon thunder in their praise:
A grateful people everywhere
Extol their deeds, their worth declare;
And bless them for this sweet release
From war, and for a glimpse of peace.
And chief our noble Illinois
Is frantic with delight and joy;
She hails her son, a welcome guest,
Returning to his own dear West;
And, with his glorious patriot band,
Thus bids him welcome to her strand:

ILLINOIS TO GEN. GRANT AND HIS COMRADES.

(In the Great Hall of the Sanitary Fair, Chicago.)

Illustrious heroes! welcome all!
Thrice welcome to this princely hall!
With bounding pulse and hearts elate,
We hail your presence in our State,—
The prairie State, whose sons admire
The leader’s worth, the soldiers’ fire;
Whose daughters with unwearied zeal
Our wounded heroes nurse and heal;
Whose gifted bards can celebrate
Those deeds which make her proud and great:
In her behalf, with hearty cheer,
The Garden City greets you here.
And, Grant, fit representative
Of all that Liberty can give;
Her guardian in the tented field,
The people’s strength, the country’s shield,
Thrice welcome to thy Western home!
Our hearts are glad that thou art come.
In thee we take a noble pride;
Fain would we have thee here abide,
Until the people call thee hence,
To be their bulwark and defense
In peaceful cares, as thou hast been
In many a well-fought battle scene.
Thus coupled with thy conquering name
May our great country shine in fame;
May every grov’ling passion fly
With violence and tyranny;
Thus may the glorious reign commence
Of virtue and intelligence;
Thus may our land at length become
Of brave and free the undoubted home:
Then would thy brightness shed a ray
To cheer the wanderer on his way;
Then would thy cheering smile illume
The lettered delver’s deep’ning gloom,
And give to learning, genius, art,
The sunshine of one patriot heart;
The soldier’s generous influence lend,
And be henceforth the poet’s friend!
So may green bays adorn thy brow,
As thy fresh laurels grace thee now;
So may all men, both East and West,
Rise up and hail thee “wisest, best;”
So may the North and South unite,
To crown thee first in peace and right,
As all mankind, both near and far,
E’en now, proclaim thee first in war!
And next, ye generous hearts who shared
Your chieftain’s toils, and nobly dared;
Brave Sherman, Sheridan, and all
Whom we true patriots can call;
All you who volunteered your aid
When danger every heart dismayed;
Who noble deeds have dared to write
In lasting colors, “black and white,”
On march, in battlefield, or camp,
By sea or river-margin damp,
Or where our mailed “web-feet” could wade
To point a gun or wield a blade;
To you, our well-tried Union friends,
Our hospitable State extends
A standing invitation meet,
Such welcome as such men should greet;
To you she shall be doubly bound,
If oft her guests ye shall be found.

And, when your warlike duties cease,
Resume the nobler arms of peace;
Assist your chief to stem the tide
Of envy, hatred, malice, pride;
And as before with common mind
You all against the foe combined;
So now, against home foes unite,
Nor pause ’till you have won the fight.
The rubbish cleared, the rock made bare,
Build up the enduring temple there;
On which the thunder, hail, and rain,
And wind shall howl and beat in vain;
Then every shock it will withstand,
Because ’twill not be built on sand!

And now we pray, may Heaven preserve
Your lives, your country long to serve
With patriotic hands and hearts,
In social life and peaceful arts!
So that when death shall come at last,
You each may look upon the past
With satisfaction, and exclaim;
“My country will preserve my fame:”
And men shall say your deeds who scan;
“Each died, as he had lived,—a man.”

Thus universal joy and light
Pervade our land late sunk in night;
The clouds of grief have passed away;
The dawn gives promise of the day;
And hope, the polar star of life,
Succeeds to discord, gloom and strife.
The people count on happy years,
To compensate for blood and tears.
But ah! how brief is human joy;
What bliss is free from base alloy!
Some note with its discordant jar
The purest harmony will mar.
The “wires” convey a rumor dread,
That Lincoln, our great chief, is dead!
Yes, murdered by the assassin’s hand,
While joy pervaded all the land;
When victory had crowned our arms,
And freed us from war’s dread alarms;
And men would Sumter’s flag restore,
As it had been in days of yore;
And cause its folds once more to wave
Where vile Secession found its grave;
When Lincoln, freed from carking care,
Some leisure hours might hope to share;
To realise fair freedom’s cause,
And taste its fruits—a just applause;—
It cannot be!—’tis but a dream,
To cloud bright hope’s translucent beam!
An effort vain to turn aside
Attention from fair pleasure’s tide!—
Let joy abound! we cannot stay
The car triumphal on its way.
But hark, once more, that dreadful knell
That haunts us like a weird spell!
A dismal sound like stifled sigh,
That rises to a wail or cry!
Dread rumor spreading as she springs,
Sheds poison from her baleful wings,
Infecting mortals as she goes,
And stirring up their fount of woes.
Alas! our Lincoln is no more;
His loss the nation must deplore!
And lo! she robes herself in weeds,
While her great heart within her bleeds;
And hark the people’s doleful strain
For their great Chief untimely slain!

ABEL MISRAIM.

A mighty man is fallen in Israel:
In Israel a mighty Chief is fallen!
Ye daughters of Jerusalem, lament,
Ye sons of Israel, bewail your loss!
He fell, but not like Jacob, ripe in years
And dim of sight, his work accomplished,
Surrounded by his sons and his sons’ sons
To the fifth generation, blessing all
And bidding them farewell; but like to Moses,
Catching a glimpse of the fair promised land
From Pisgah’s top, forbid to enter it,
And there enjoy the fruit of all his toil.
With eye not dimmed, and with his natural force
Still unabated, he has fallen asleep:
Yet not by God’s behest. Like Absalom
He fell by violence: a nation mourns,
And will not be consoled, as David mourned
For Absalom, his son. As Rachel wept
Her children, for they were not, so America
Weeps for thy fate, our father and our friend;
And cries: “My father, Lincoln, would that I
Could die for thee, my father, Abraham!
Abraham, my father, would that I could die
Instead of thee, my father, oh, my father!”

And she has draped her graceful limbs in weeds,
In drapery of mourning all too weak
To give expression to her speechless woe!
Behold her drooping o’er her honored dead,
Her grief too deep for tears: and there she stands
Gazing intently on his ghastly wounds
Whence blood and brain are oozing, and she cries:
“Behold the work of treason! lo, the deed
Of parricides who lifted up their hands,
Their murderous hands, against their father’s life,
Against their benefactor and their friend!
Whose soul was ever gentleness and love,
Who would have gathered ’neath our glorious flag,
E’en as a hen doth gather her young brood
Beneath her wings, his own rebellious sons,
But they would not! Behold him stark and stiff,
The innocent one, the guileless and the just,
Who for our sins has drunk this bitter cup!
Oh, had it passed away and he been spared!
As Jesus suffered for the human race,
So Lincoln suffered for a nation’s crime,
On that same day on which the Saviour died!”

Unveil his face, and note that saintly head
Disfigured by those gashes whose red mouths
Cry, not for vengeance, but for mercy still
E’en towards his murderers! Shall Justice sleep,
Because his gentle spirit wills it so?
Shall God’s right hand be stayed from smiting all
Who in this deed of hell have taken part?
Who sanction it by word or act? Not so!
If men keep dumb, then shall the stones speak out,
And raise a loud, a shrill heaven-piercing cry,
And call upon the thunderbolts to strike
The guilty monsters who have done this deed!
Or should these linger, may a blight from God
Fall on their fields, their houses and their flocks!
As outcasts may they wander o’er this earth,
The mark of Cain upon their foreheads set!
May every heart of matron, man and maid
Be steeled against them, and no pity soothe
Their hours of dark despair, until that life
Which cowardice would screen from justice now
Become a burden, and they call on death,
But call in vain, to end their wretchedness!

They have embalmed our chief, even as of old
The patriarch in Egypt was embalmed;
For whom they mourned full three score days and ten.
But for our patriarch, three score years and ten,
Nay, time itself will scarce suffice to mourn;
And not alone his native land, but all
The lands and races of the earth shall mourn!
Where’er the name of Liberty is known,
Or where the faintest whispers of it reach;
For in his life she too has been assailed.
From Cape de Verde to Guardefui’s rock,
From Table Mountain to Calabria’s shore,
From Calpe to the Ural hills, and thence
To dusky Ind and Siam, and the coasts
Of yellow China and far off Japan;
From the Antarctic to the howling caves,
Where ocean thunders ’neath the Northern Bear;
Through all the Atlantic and Pacific isles,
The mournful echoes, catching up the wail,
Shall swell the diapason of our woe,
And men shall shudder when they hear the strain.
And as the heavens were darkened, and the sun
Was veiled in sorrow, and the earth was rent,
On that sad day when Christ, the Saviour, died,
Even so a gloom and horror shall brood o’er
Men’s moral sense—so shall their hearts be rent
With grief and horror, when they hear this cry,
Until the very tyrants on their thrones
Who gloat o’er this huge crime—whose lavish gold
And words of cheer have served perhaps to nerve
The assassin’s hand to do this frightful deed—
Shall tremble for their work and topple down,
Even as the idols in their temples fell
Before the glory of the Ark of God.

And as the patriarch, Jacob, was inurned
In Canaan, in the cave of Machpelah,
Which Abraham bought of Ephron, and in which
He and his loved Sarah slept in peace;
Where Isaac and Rebecca took their rest,
And Jacob buried Leah: so our Chief
Will soon be gathered to his kin, and laid
Beneath the turf of his own Illinois,
To whose fair name his own immortal fame
Shall add fresh luster, while this earth endures.
And SPRINGFIELD, proud to guard the patriot’s dust
Shall be henceforth a MECCA to the sons
Of freedom, temperance and Christian love,
To make their pilgrimages to that spot,
And bend in reverence at the good man’s shrine,
The second Washington, as men have bowed,
And ever will do honor, to the first!

And as the Canaanites, when they observed
The grief of Israel’s children round his grave,
And heard their lamentations loud and long,
Said, “This is a grievous mourning to the Egyptians,”
And Abel Misraim named that sacred place;
So all the nations scattered o’er our globe,
Noting our grief, and listening to the cry
Of our great sorrow, shall exclaim, “Behold!
This is a grievous mourning to the Free!
Their wail of woe goes up from all the land
For Abraham Lincoln, their dear martyred Saint!”
And these will join us in our sorrowing,
And tears shall flow in streams from every eye,
And sobs from every heart, till all mankind
Shall mourn in unison, and the whole earth
One mighty ABEL MISRAIM shall be named!