The Poets' Lincoln Part 20

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE FUNERAL CAR]

This car bore the remains of the Martyr President to his home in Springfield, Illinois, where they were laid to rest. The funeral train left Washington, D. C., on the 21st of April, 1865, proceeded from that city to Baltimore, Maryland; Harrisburg and Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; New York City, Albany and Buffalo, New York; Cleveland and Columbus, Ohio; Indianapolis, Indiana; Chicago, Illinois; and finally to Springfield, reaching the latter place May 3, where the last sad rites were performed on the succeeding day. The body lay in state in all the above cities, brief stops being also made in many smaller places.

Richard Henry Stoddard in the following Horatian Ode made a beautiful a.n.a.lysis of the Martyr President's character, with a magnificent picture of the nation's tribute of mourning for its dead chief:

THE FUNERAL CAR OF LINCOLN

Peace! Let the long procession come, For, hark!--the mournful, m.u.f.fled drum-- The trumpet's wail afar-- And, see! the awful car!

Peace! let the sad procession go, While cannon boom, and bells toll slow: And go, thou sacred car, Bearing our Woe afar!

Go, darkly borne, from State to State, Whose loyal, sorrowing cities wait To honor all they can The dust of that good man!

Go, grandly borne, with such a train As greatest kings might die to gain; The Just, the Wise, the Brave Attend thee to the grave!

And you the soldiers of our wars, Bronzed veterans, grim with n.o.ble scars, Salute him once again, Your late Commander--slain!

Yes, let your tears, indignant, fall, And leave your muskets on the wall; Your country needs you now Beside the forge, the plow!

(When Justice shall unsheathe her brand-- If Mercy may not stay her hand, Nor would we have it so-- She must direct the blow!)

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, With History on her ample page The virtues shall enroll Of that Paternal Soul.

William Cullen Bryant, born in c.u.mmington, Ma.s.sachusetts, November 3, 1794. Died in New York, June 12, 1878. He wrote verses in his twelfth year to be recited at school. Spent two years at Williams College and at the age of eighteen began the study of law. He depended upon his profession for a number of years, although it was not to his liking.

His contributions to the _North American Review_ and his poems published therein gained him an enviable reputation, and reflected great credit upon him.

THE DEATH OF LINCOLN

Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare, Gentle and merciful and just!

Who, in the fear of G.o.d didst bear The sword of power, a nation's trust.

In sorrow by thy bier we stand, Amid the awe that hushes all, And speak the anguish of a land That shook with horror at thy fall.

Thy task is done; the bond is free-- We bear thee to an honored grave, Whose n.o.blest monument shall be The broken fetters of the slave.

Pure was thy life; its b.l.o.o.d.y close Hath placed thee with the sons of light Among the n.o.ble host of those Who perished in the cause of right.

[Ill.u.s.tration: CITY HALL, NEW YORK, N. Y.]

At the time of the appearance of the procession at the City Hall at least twenty thousand persons were a.s.sembled in the immediate neighborhood. While awaiting the arrival of the procession a number of German singing bands were marched into the open s.p.a.ce before the Hall, and arranged on either side of the entrance, preparatory to the singing of a requiem to the dead. The procession entered the Park at about half-past eleven o'clock, and the hea.r.s.e stopped before the entrance to the Hall. Here the coffin was immediately taken from the hea.r.s.e and carried up the stairs to the catafalque which had been prepared for its reception, while the singing societies rendered two very appropriate dirges.

The interior of the City Hall had been decorated with much taste.

Across the dome a black curtain was drawn, and the rays of light thus conducted fell subdued upon the sad but imposing spectacle.

Henry T. Tuckerman, a member of the Committee on Resolutions, wrote the following ode for the funeral obsequies, on the 25th day of April, 1865, at New York City. The Athenaeum Club partic.i.p.ated, bearing an appropriate banner, the members wearing distinctive badges of mourning and under the leadership of their Vice-President, Henry E. Pierpont; the President, William T. Blodgett, being at that time absent acting as Chairman of the Citizens Committee:

ODE

Shroud the banner! rear the cross!

Consecrate a nation's loss; Gaze on that majestic sleep; Stand beside the bier to weep; Lay the gentle son of toil Proudly in his native soil; Crowned with honor, to his rest Bear the prophet of the West.

How cold the brow that yet doth wear The impress of a nation's care; How still the heart, whose every beat Glowed with compa.s.sion's sacred heat; Rigid the lips, whose patient smile Duty's stern task would oft beguile; Blood-quenched the pensive eye's soft light; Nerveless the hand so loth to smite; So meek in rule, it leads, though dead, The people as in life it led.

O let his wise and guileless sway Win every recreant today, And sorrow's vast and holy wave Blend all our hearts around his grave!

Let the faithful bondmen's tears, Let the traitor's craven fears, And the people's grief and pride, Plead against the parricide!

Let us throng to pledge and pray O'er the patriot martyr's clay; Then, with solemn faith in right, That made him victor in the fight, Cling to the path he fearless trod, Still radiant with the smile of G.o.d.

Shroud the banner! rear the cross!

Consecrate a nation's loss; Gaze on that majestic sleep; Stand beside the bier to weep; Lay the gentle son of toil Proudly in his native soil; Crowned with honor, to his rest Bear the prophet of the West.

Lucy Larcom was born in Beverly, Ma.s.s., in 1826. At the age of seven years she wrote stories and poems. She spent three years in school, then worked in the cotton mills. Some of her writings attracted the attention of Whittier, from whom she received encouragement. At the age of twenty she went to Illinois and there taught school for some time, and for three years studied in Monticello Female Seminary. She returned to Ma.s.sachusetts and during the war wrote many patriotic poems.

TOLLING

Tolling, tolling, tolling!

All the bells of the land!

Lo, the patriot martyr Taketh his journey grand!

Travels into the ages, Bearing a hope how dear!

Into life's unknown vistas, Liberty's great pioneer.

Tolling, tolling, tolling!