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The flags half-mast, that late so high
Flaunted at each new victory?

(The stars no brightness shed,
But bloody looks the red!)

The black festoons that stretch for miles,
And turn the streets to funeral aisles?
(No house too poor to show
The Nation's badge of woe!)

The cannon's sudden, sullen boom,-
The bells that toll of death and doom,-
The rolling of the drums,-

The dreadful Car that comes?

Cursed be the hand that fired the shot! The frenzied brain that hatched the plot : Thy Country's Father slain

By thee, thou worse than Cain!

Tyrants have fallen by such as thou, And Good hath followed-May it now! (God lets bad instruments

Produce the best events.)

But he, the Man we mourn to-day,
No tyrant was; so mild a sway
In one such weight who bore
Was never known before!

Cool should he be, of balanced powers,
The Ruler of a Race like ours,

Impatient, headstrong, wild,-
The Man to guide the Child!

And this he was, who most unfit
(So hard the sense of God to hit!)
Did seem to fill his Place.
With such a homely face,-

Such rustic manners-speech uncouth(That somehow blundered out the Truth!) Untried, untrained to bear,

The more than kingly Care?

Ay! And his genius put to scorn
The proudest in the purple born,
Whose wisdom never grew

To what, untaught, he knew

The People, of whom he was one.
No gentleman like Washington,-

(Whose bones, methinks, make room,
To have him in their tomb!)

A laboring man, with horny hands,
Who swung the axe, who tilled his lands,
Who shrank from nothing new,
But did as poor men do!

One of the People! Born to be
Their curious Epitome;

To share, yet rise above

Their shifting hate and love.

Common his mind (it seemed so then),
His thoughts the thoughts of other men ;
Plain were his words, and poor-
But now they will endure!

No hasty fool, of stubborn will,
But prudent, cautious, pliant, still;
Who, since his work was good,
Would do it, as he could.

Doubting, was not ashamed to doubt,
And, lacking prescience, went without;
Often appeared to halt,

And was, of course, at fault:

Heard all opinions, nothing loth,
And loving both sides, angered both :
Was not like Justice, blind,
But watchful, clement, kind.

No hero, this, of Roman mould;
Nor like our stately sires of old;
Perhaps he was not Great-
But he preserved the State!

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Bow while the Body passes-Nay,
Fall on your knees, and weep, and pray.
Weep, weep-I would ye might-
Your poor, black faces white!

And, Children, you must come in bands,
With garlands in your little hands,
Of blue, and white, and red,
To strew before the Dead!

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,
While History on her ample page
The virtues shall enroll

Of that Paternal Soul!

ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

FOULLY ASSASSINATED, APRIL 14, 1865.

(From the London Punch.)

You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier,
You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace,
Broad for the self-complacent British sneer,

His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face,

His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair, His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease,

His lack of all we prize as debonair,

Of power or will to shine, of art to please.

You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh,
Judging each step, as though the way were plain;
Reckless, so it could point its paragraph,

Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain.

Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet
The stars and stripes he lived to rear anew,
Between the mourners at his head and feet,
Say, scurrile jester, is there room for you?

Yes, he had lived to shame me from my sneer,
To lame my pencil, and confute my pen-
To make me own this hind of princes peer,
This rail-splitter a true-born king of men.

My shallow judgment I had learnt to rue,
Noting how to occasion's height he rose,
How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true,
How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows.

How humble, yet how hopeful he could be:
How in good fortune and in ill the same:
Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he,

Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame.

He went about his work-such work as few
Ever had laid on head and heart and hand-

As one who knows, where there's a task to do,

Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command;

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