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So fallen ! so lost! the light withdrawn,

Which once he wore ! The glory from his gray


gone Forevermore!

No medal lifts its fretteil face,

Nor speaking marble cheats your eye ; Yet, while these pictured lines I trace,

A living image passes by :
A roof beneath the mountain pines ;

The cloisters of a hill-girt plain ;
The front of life's em battled lines ;

A mound' beside the heaving main. These are the scenes : a boy appears ;

Set life's round dial in the sun, Count the swift arc of seventy years,

His frame is dust ; his task is done. Yet pause upon the noontide hour,

Ere the declining sun has laid His bleaching rays on manhood's power,

And look upon the mighty shade. No gloom that stately shape can hide,

No change uncrown his brow ; behold ! Dark, calm, large-fronted, lightning-eyed,

Earth has no double from its mould !

Revile him not, – the Tempter hath

A snare for all ! And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,

Betit his fall!

O, dumb be passion's stormy rage,

When he who might Have lighted up and led his age

Falls back in night!

Scorn! would the angels laugh to mark

A bright soul driven, Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark,

From hope and heaven?

Let not the land, once proud of him,

Insult him now; Nor brand with deeper shame his dim,

Dishonored brow.

But let its humbled sons instead,

From sea to lake,
A long lament, as for the dead,

In sadness inake.

Ere from the fields by valor won

The battle-smoke had rolled away, And bared the blood-red setting sun,

His eyes were opened on the day. His land was but a shelving strip,

Black with the strife that made it free ; He lived to see its banners dip

Their fringes in the western sea. The boundless prairies learned his name,

His words the mountain echoes knew; The northern breezes swept his fame

From icy lake to warm bayou.
In toil he lived ; in peace he died ;

When life's full cycle was complete,
Put off his robes of power and pride,

And laid them at his Master's feet.

Of all we loved and honored, naught

Save power remains,
A fallen angel's pride of thought,

Still strong in chains.

All else is gone ; from those great eyes

The soul has led : When faith is lost, when honor dies,

The man is dead !

Then pay the reverence of old days

To his dead fame ;
Walk backward, with averted gaze,
And hide the shame !


His rest is by the storm-swept waves,

Whom life's wild tempests roughly tried, Whose heart was like the streaming caves

Of ocean, throbbing at his side. Death's cold white hand is like the snow

Laid softly on the furrowed hill ; It hides the broken seams below,

And leaves the summit brighter still.
In vain the envious tongue upbraids ;

His name a nation's heart shall keep,
Till morning's latest sunlight fades
On the blue tablet of the deep !



LAY him beneath his snow's, The great Norse giant who in these last days Troubled the nations. Gather decently | The imperial robes about him. 'T is but man,


This demi-gou. Or rather it was man,

And is a little dust, that will corrupt
As fast as any nameless dust which sleeps
'Neath Alma's grass or Balaklava's vines.

LIFE may be given in many ways,

And loyalty Truth be sealed No vineyard grave for him. No quiet tomb

As bravely in the closet as the field, By river margin, where across the seas

So bountiful is Fate ; Children's fond thoughts and women's memories

But then to stand beside her, come,

When craven churls deride her, Like angels, to sit by the sepulchre,

To front a lie in arms and not to yield, Saying: "All these were men who knew to count,

This shows, inethinks, God's plan -Front-faced, the cost of honor, nor did shrink

And measure of a stalwart man, From its full payment; coining here to die,

Liin bed like the old heroic breeds, They died – like men.”

Who stand self-poised on manhood's solid

earth, But this man ! Ah! for him

Not forced to frame excuses for his birth, Funereal state, and ceremonial grand,

Fed from within with all the strength he needs.
The stone-engraved sarcophagus, and then

Such was he, our Martyr-Chief,
Nay, oblivion were as bliss

Whom late the Nation he had led,

With ashes on her head,
To that fierce howl which rolls from land to land
Exulting, — “Art thou fallen, Lucifer,

Wept with the passion of an angry grief :
Son of the morning ?" or condemning, “ Thus Forgive me, if from present things I turn
Perish the wicked !" or blaspheming, " Here

To speak what in my heart will beat and burn, Lies our Belshazzar, our Sennacherib,

Anıl hang my wreath on his world-honored urn. Our Pharaoh, he whose heart God hardened,

Nature, they say, doth dote,

And cannot make a man So that he would not let the people go."

Save on some worn-out plan, Self-glorifying sinners! Why, this man

Repeating us by rote: Was but like other men, -- you, Levite small,

For him her Old-World moulds aside he threw, Who shut your saintly ears, and prate of hell

And, choosing sweet clay from the breast

Of the unexhausted West,
And heretics, because outside church-doors,
Your church-doors, congregations poor and small / With stuff untainted shaped a hero new,
Praise Heaven in their own way ; you, autocrat

Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true.

How beautiful to see
Of all the hamlets, who add field to field
And house to house, whose slavish children cower

Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed,

Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead ; Before your tyrant footstep; you, foul-tongued Fanatic or ambitious egotist,

One whose meek flock the people joyed to be, Who think God stoops from his high majesty

Not lured by any cheat of birth, To lay his finger on your puny head,

But hy his clear-grained human worth,

And brave old wisdom of sincerity !
And crown it, that you henceforth may parade
Your maggotship throughout the wondering

They knew that outward grace is dust ;
world, -

They could not choose but trust

In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill, "I am the Lord's anointed !"

And supple-tempered will
Fools and blind

That bent like perfect steel to spring again and

thrust. This czar, this emperor, this disthronèd corpse, Lying so straightly in an icy calm

His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind, Grander than sovereignty, was but as ye,

Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars, No better and no worse : Heaven mend us all !

A sea-mark now, now lost in vapors blind ;

Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined, Carry him forth and bury him. Deatli's peace

Fruitful and friendly for all human kind, Rest on his memory! Mercy by his bier

Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of loftiest stars. Sits silent, or says only these few words,

Nothing of Europe here, "Let him who is without sin 'mongst ye all

Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still, Cast the first stone."

Ere any names of Serf and Peer
Could Nature's equal scheme deface ;


Here was a type of the true elder race, My shallow judgment I had learned to rue, And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face Noting how to occasion's height he rose ; to face.

How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more I praise him not; it were too late ;

true ; And some innative weakness there must be How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows. In him who condescends to victory Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait, How humble, yet how hopeful, he could be ; Safe in himself as in a fate.

How, in good fortune and in ill, the same ; So always firmly he :

Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, He knew to bide his time,

Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame. And can his fame abide, Still patient in his simple faith sublime, He went about his work, — such work as few Till the wise years decide.

Ever had laid on head and heart and hand, Great captains, with their guns and drums, As one who knows, where there's a task to do, Disturb our judgment for the hour,

Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace But at last silence comes ;

command ; These all are gone, and, standing like a tower, Our children shall behold his fame,

Who trusts the strength wili with the burden The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man,

grow, Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame, That God makes instruments to work his will, New birth of our new soil, the first American. If but that will we can arrive to know,

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill.


So he went forth to battle, on the side

That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's,

As in his peasant boyhood he had plied
His warfare with rude Nature's thwarting

mights; You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier,

You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace, The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil, Broad for the self-complacent British sneer, The iron-bark, that turns the lumberer's axe, His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face, The rapid, that o'erbears the boatman's toil,

The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks, His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair,

The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear,His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease,

Such were the deeds that helped his youth to His lack of all we prize as debonair,

train : Of power or will to shine, of art to please ;

Rough culture, but such trees large fruit may

bear, You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's

If but their stocks be of right girth and grain. laugh, Judging each step as though the way were so he grew up, a destined work to do, plain,

And lived to do it : four long-suffering years' Reckless, so it could point its paragraph Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain :

Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through,

And then he heard the hisses change to cheers, Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew,

The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise, Between the niourners at his head and feet,

And took both with the same unwa

wavering mood; Say, scurrile jester, is there room for you?

Till, as he came on light, from darkling days,

And seemed to touch the goal from where he Yes : he had lived to shame me from my sneer,

stood, To lame my pencil, and confute my pen ; To make me own this hind of princes peer,

A felon hand, between the goal and him, This rail-splitter a true-born king of men.

Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest,

And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim, • This tribute appeared in the London Punch, which, up to

Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to the time of the assassination of Mr. Lincoln, had ridiculed and maligned him with all its well-known powers of pen and pencil.


The words of mercy were upon his lips,

Whatever can be known of earth we know, Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen, Sneered Europe's wise men, in their snailWhen this vile murderer brought swift eclipse

shells curled ; To thoughts of peace on earth, good-will to men. No! said one man in Geroa, and that No

Out of the dark created this New World. The Old World and the New, from sea to sea,

Utter one voice of sympathy and shame : Who is it will not dare himself to trust? Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high ; Who is it hath not strength to stand alone ? Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came !

Who is it thwarts and bilks the inward Must?

He and his works, like sand, from earth are A deed accurst! Strokes have been struck before blown.

By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt If more of horror or disgrace they bore ;

Men of a thousand shifts and wiles, look here ! But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly See one straightforward conscience put in pawn out.

To win a world ; see the obedient sphere

By bravery's simple gravitation drawn !
Vile hand, that brandest inurder on a strife,
Whate'erits grounds, stoutly and pobly striven ;

Shall we not heed the lesson taught of old, And with the martyr's crown crownest a life

And by the Present's lips repeated still, With much to praise, little to be forgiven.

In our own single manhood to be bold,

Fortressed in conscience and impregnable will ? We stride the river daily at its spring,

Nor, in our childish thoughtlessness, foresee WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON.

What myriad vassal streams shall tribute bring,

How like an equal it shall greet the sea. "Some time afterward, it was reported to me by the city officers that they had ferreted out the paper and its editor ; that his office was an obscure hole, his only visible auxiliary a negro boy, and his O small beginnings, ye are great and strong, supporters a few very insignificant persons of all colors." - Letter of

Based on a faithful heart and weariless brain !

Ye build the future fair, ye conquer wrong, In a small chamber, friendless and unseen, Ye earn the crown, and wear it not in vain. Toiled o'er his types one poor, unlearned young




man ;


The place was dark, unfurnitured, and mean :
Yet there the freedom of a race began.

Help came but slowly ; surely no man yet
Put lever to the heavy world with less :

Gone at last,
What need of help? He knew how types were set,

That brave old hero of the past ! He had a dauntless spirit, and a press.

His spirit has a second birth,

i An unknown, grander life; Such earnest natures are the fiery pith,

All of him that was earth The compact nucleus, round which systems Lies mute and cold, grow :

Like a wrinkled sheath and old,
Mass after mass becomes inspired therewith, Thrown off forever from the shimmering blade
And whirls impregnate with the central glow. That has good entrance made

Upon some distant, glorious strife.
O Truth! ( Freedom ! how are ye still born
In the rude stable, in the manger nursed !

From another generation,
What humble hands unbar those gates of morn

A simpler age, to ows Old Ironsides came; Through which the splendors of the New Day The morn and noontide of the nation burst!

Alike he knew, nor yet outlived his fame,

0, not outlived his fame! What! shall one monk, scarce known beyond his! The dauntless men whose service guards our shore cell,

1 Lengthen still their glory-roll Front Rome's far-reaching bolts, and scorn her: With his name to lead the scroll, frown?

As a flagship at her fore Brave Luther answered Yes ; that thunder's suell ('arries the Union, with its azure and the stars, Rocked Europe, and discharmed the triple Symbol of times that are no more

And the old heroic wars.


how many



He was the one

Earth to earth his dust is laid, Whom Death had spared alone

Methinks his stately shade Of all the captains of that lusty age,

On the shadow of a great ship leaves the shore; Who sought the foeman where he lay,

Over cloudless western seas On sea or sheltering bay,

Seeks the far Hesperides, Nor till the prize was theirs repressed their The islands of the blest, rage.

Where no turbulent billows roar, -
They are gone, — all gone :

Where is rest.
They rest with glory and the undying Powers; His ghost upon the shadowy quarter stands
Only their name and fame, and what they Nearing the deathless lands.
saved, are ours !

There all his martial mates, renewed and

strong, It was fifty years ago,

Await his coming long. Upon the Gallic Sea,

I see the happy Heroes rise He bore the banner of the free,

With gratulation in their eyes : And fought the fight whereof our children “Welcome, old comrade,” Lawrence cries ; know,

“Ah, Stewart, tell us of the wars ! The deathful, desperate fight!

Who win the glory and the scars ? Under the fair moon's light

How floats the skyey flag, The frigate squared, and yawed to left and right. stars?

Every broadside swept to death a score ! Still speak they of Decatur's name? Roundly played her guns and well, till their Of Bainbridge's and Perry's fame? fiery ensigns fell,

Of me, who earliest came ? Neither foe replying more.

Make ready, all :
All in silence, when the night breeze cleared the Room for the Admiral !

Come, Stewart, tell us of the wars!”.
Old Ironsides rested there,
Locked in between the twain, and drenched with

Then homeward, like an eagle with her prey !
0, it was a gallant fray,

That fight in Biscay Bay !
Fearless the captain stood, in his youthful hardi-
hood :

Aloft upon an old basaltic crag,
He was the boldest of them all,

Which, scalpeil by keen winds that defend Our brave old Admiral !

the Pole,
Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll

Around the secret of the mystic zone,
And still our heroes bleed,

A mighty nation's star-bespangled flag Taught by that olden deed.

Flutters alone,
Whether of iron or of oak

And underneath, upon the lifeless front
The ships we marshal at our country's need,
Still speak their cannon now as then they Fit type of him who, famishing and gaunt,

Of that drear cliff, a simple name is traced ; spoke ;

But with a rocky purpose in his soul, Still floats our unstruck banner from the mast

Breasted the gathering snow's, As in the stormy past.

Clung to the drifting floes,

By want beleaguered, and by winter chaseil, Lay him in the ground :

Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen waste. Let him rest where the ancient river rolls ; Let him sleep beneath the shadow and the sound Not many months ago we greeted him,

of the bell whose proclamation, as it tolls, Crowned with the icy honors of the North, Is of Freedom and the gift our fathers gave.

Across the land his hard-won fanie went forth, Lay him gently down :

And Maine's deep woods were shaken limb by The clamor of the town

limb. Will not break the slumbers deep, the beautiful, His own mild Keystone State, sedate and prim, ripe sleep,

Burst from decorous quiet, as he came. Of this lion of the wave,

Hot Southern lips, with eloquence aflame, Will not trouble the old Admiral in his grave. Sounded his triumph. Texas, wild and grim,


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