The Nation that firmly was settling The crown on her head, Sits, like Rizpah, in sackcloth and ashes, And watches her dead. Who is dead? who, unmoved by our wailing, Is lying so low? O, my Land, stricken dumb in your anguish, Do you feel, do you know, That the hand which reached out of the darkness Hath taken the whole? Yea, the arm and the head of the people-- The heart and the soul! And that heart, o'er whose dread awful silence A nation has wept; Was the truest, and gentlest, and sweetest, A man ever kept! Once this good man, we mourn, overwearied, Worn, anxious, oppressed, Was going out from his audience chamber For a season to rest; Unheeding the thousands who waited To honor and greet, When the cry of a child smote upon him, And turned back his feet. "Three days hath a woman been waiting," Said they, "patient and meek." And he answered, "Whatever her errand, Let me hear; let her speak!" So she came, and stood trembling before him, And pleaded her cause; Told him all; how her child's erring father Had broken the laws. Humbly spake she: "I mourn for his folly, His weakness, his fall"; Proudly spake she: "he is not a TRAITOR, And I love him through all!" Then the great man, whose heart had been shaken By a little babe's cry; Answered soft, taking counsel of mercy, "This man shall not die!" Why, he heard from the dungeons, the rice-fields, The dark holds of ships; Every faint, feeble cry which oppression Smothered down on men's lips. In her furnace, the centuries had welded Their fetter and chain; And like withes, in the hands of his purpose, He snapped them in twain. Who can be what he was to the people; What he was to the State? Shall the ages bring to us another As good, and as great? Our hearts with their anguish are broken, Our wet eyes are dim; For us is the loss and the sorrow, The triumph for him! For, ere this, face to face with his Father Our Martyr hath stood; Giving unto his hand the white record, With its great seal of blood! [13] _By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Company._ TOLLING[14] (April 15, 1865) BY LUCY LARCOM 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! See, they come as a cloud, Hearts of a mighty people, Bearing his pall and shroud; Lifting up, like a banner, Signals of loss and woe; Wonder of breathless nations, Moveth the solemn show.