Such thunderbolts, in other lands, Each laurelled Cesar's brow! No Cesar he, whom we lament, Sent, it would seem, to do Not by the weary cares of State, Must yet be done again: Not in the dark, wild tide of War, In awful anarchy: Four fateful years of mortal strife, (Yet, for each drop that ran There sprang an armed man!) Not then; but when by measures meet, By victory, and by defeat By courage, patience, skill, The People's fixed "We will!" Had pierced, had crushed Rebellion dead,— Without a Hand, without a Head; At last, when all was well, He fell O, how he fell! The time, the place, the stealing Shape,The coward shot,-the swift escape, The wife-the widow's scream, It is a hideous Dream! A Dream ?-what means this pageant, then? Who speak not when they meet, The flags half-mast, that late so high (The stars no brightness shed, The black festoons that stretch for miles, The cannon's sudden, sullen boom,- 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, But he, the Man we mourn to-day, Cool should he be, of balanced powers, Impatient, headstrong, wild,- And this he was, who most unfit 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 To what, untaught, he knew The People, of whom he was one. (Whose bones, methinks, make room, A laboring man, with horny hands, But did as poor men do! One of the People! Born to be To share, yet rise above Their shifting hate and love. Common his mind (it seemed so then), No hasty fool, of stubborn will, Doubting, was not ashamed to doubt, And was, of course, at fault: Heard all opinions, nothing loth, No hero, this, of Roman mould; O honest face, which all men knew! Cut off by tragic Rage! Peace! Let the long procession come, For hark!—the mournful, muffled drumThe trumpet's wail afar, And see the awful Car! Peace! Let the sad procession go, Bearing our Woe afar! Go, darkly borne, from State to State, The dust of that Good Man! Go, grandly borne, with such a train And you, the soldiers of our wars, Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars, Salute him once again, Your late Commander-slain ! Yes, let your tears, indignant, fall, (When Justice shall unsheathe her brandIf Mercy may not stay her hand, Nor would we have it so- And you, amid the Master-Race Know ye who cometh? He Bow while the Body passes-Nay, And, Children, you must come in bands, So sweetly, sadly, sternly goes The churchyard where his children rest, And there his countrymen shall come, For many a year, and many an Age, Of that Paternal Soul! |