Such rustic manners,--speech uncouth,-- (That somehow blundered out the truth!) Untried, untrained to bear The more than kingly care! Ay! And his genius put to scorn The proudest in the purple born, Whose wisdom never grew To what, untaught, he knew-- The people, of whom he was one. No gentleman like Washington,-- (Whose bones, methinks, make room, To have him in their tomb!) A laboring man, with horny hands, Who swung the axe, who tilled his lands, Who shrank from nothing new, But did as poor men do! One of the people! Born to be Their curious epitome; To share, yet rise above Their shifting hate and love. Common his mind (it seemed so then), His thought the thoughts of other men: Plain were his words, and poor-- But now they will endure! No hasty fool, of stubborn will, But prudent, cautious, pliant, still; Who, since his work was good, Would do it, as he could. Doubting, was not ashamed to doubt, And, lacking prescience, went without: Often appeared to halt, And was, of course, at fault: Heard all opinions, nothing loth, And loving both sides, angered both: Was--not like justice, blind, But watchful, clement, kind. No hero, this, of Roman mould; Nor like our stately sires of old: Perhaps he was not great-- But he preserved that State! O honest face, which all men knew! O tender heart, but known to few! O wonder of the age, Cut off by tragic rage! Peace! Let the long procession come, For hark!--the mournful, muffled 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 noble scars, Salute him once again, Your late commander--slain! Yes, let your tears, indignant, fall, But leave your muskets on the wall: Your country needs you now Beside the forge, the plough! (When justice shall unsheathe her brand,-- If mercy may not stay her hand, Nor would we have it so-- She must direct the blow!) And you, amid the master-race, Who seem so strangely out of place, Know ye who cometh? He Who hath declared ye free!