Abraham Lincoln
(Summer, 1865.)
Dead is the roll of the drums,
And the distant thunders die,
They fade in the far-off sky;
And a lovely summer comes,
Like the smile of Him on high.
How the tall white daisies grow,
Where the grim artillery rolled!
(Was it only a moon ago?
It seems a century old,)—
And the bee hums in the clover,
As the pleasant June comes on;
Aye, the wars are all over,—
But our good Father is gone.
There was tumbling of traitor fort,
Flaming of traitor fleet—
Lighting of city and port,
Clasping in square and street.
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.
And our boys had fondly thought,
To-day, in marching by,
From the ground so dearly bought,
And the fields so bravely fought,
To have met their Father’s eye.
But they may not see him in place
Nor their ranks be seen of him;
We look for the well-known face,
And the splendor is strangely dim.
Perished?—who was it said
Our Leader had passed away?
Dead? Our President dead?
He has not died for a day!
We mourn for a little breath
Such as, late or soon, dust yields;
But the Dark Flower of Death
Blooms in the fadeless fields.
We looked on a cold, still brow,
But Lincoln could yet survive;
He never was more alive,
Never nearer than now.
For the pleasant season found him,
Guarded by faithful hands,
In the fairest of Summer Lands;
With his own brave Staff around him,
There our President stands.
There they are all at his side,
The noble hearts and true,
That did all men might do—
Then slept, with their swords, and died.
Henry Howard Brownell.