Lay him to sleep, whom we have learned to love;
Lay him to sleep, whom we have learned to trust.
Mo blossom of hope shall spring from out of his dust;
Mo flower of faith shall bloom his sod above.
Although the sod by sorrowful hands be dressed,
Although the dust with tenderest tears be drenched,
A feebler light succeeds the new light quenched,
And weaker hands the strong hands crossed in rest.
Our new, our untried leader-when he rose,
Though still old hatreds fed upon old grief's,
Death or disgrace has stilled the cry of chiefs
Of old who rallied us against our foes.
A soldier of the camp, we knew him thus:
No saintly champion, high above his kind,
To follow with devotion mad and blind-
He fought and fared, essayed and erred, with us.
And so, half-hearted, went we where he led;
And, following whither beckoned his bright Made,
Learned his high will and purpose undismayed;
And brought him all our faith-and found him dead.
Is of the sacred pall, that once of yore
Draped Lincoln dead, one moldering fragment left?
Spread it above him -Knight whose helm was cleft
Fair in the fight, as his who fell before.
As his who fell before, his seat we dress
With pitiful shreds of black, that flow and fall
Upon the bosom of the breeze, whose wail
Prays as respect that hallowed emptiness.
Ay! who less worthy now may take that chair,
If our first martyr's spirit on one hand
And this new ghost upon the other stand,
Saying: Betray thy country if thou dare!