Part 21

There was thunder of mine and gun, Cheering by mast and tent,-- When--his dread work all done, And his high fame full won-- Died the Good President.

In his quiet chair he sate, Pure of malice or guile, Stainless of fear or hate,-- And there played a pleasant smile On the rough and careworn face; For his heart was all the while On means of mercy and grace.

The brave old Flag drooped o'er him, (A fold in the hard hand lay)-- He looked, perchance, on the play-- But the scene was a shadow before him, For his thoughts were far away.

'Twas but the morn (yon fearful Death-shade, gloomy and vast, Lifting slowly at last), His household heard him say, "'Tis long since I've been so cheerful, So light of heart as to-day."

'Twas dying, the long dread clang-- But, or ever the blessed ray Of peace could brighten to-day, Murder stood by the way-- Treason struck home his fang! One throb--and, without a pang, That pure soul passed away.

Kindly Spirit!--Ah, when did treason Bid such a generous nature cease, Mild by temper and strong by reason, But ever leaning to love and peace?

A head how sober; a heart how spacious; A manner equal with high or low; Rough but gentle, uncouth but gracious, And still inclining to lips of woe.

Patient when saddest, calm when sternest, Grieved when rigid for justice' sake; Given to jest, yet ever in earnest If aught of right or truth were at stake.

Simple of heart, yet shrewd therewith, Slow to resolve, but firm to hold; Still with parable and with myth Seasoning truth, like Them of old; Aptest humor and quaintest pith! (Still we smile o'er the tales he told.)

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!