Once, in Senate encounter, in battle’s fierce brunt, Thy plume, like Navarre’s, streamed full high in the front. Thou wast once, like Scotch Bruce, of inflexible will, Unyielding, though conquered, and resolute still. In field or in council, with sword, tongue or pen, The molder of ideas, the leader of men. Clay--Webster--Oh, Chief, are thy pulses unstirred When the mighty debate in the Senate is heard? Hark, Sumter’s loud tocsin! Saw the world e’er the like? For Freedom and Union and Southland they strike. Grant, Meade, Lee and Thomas like Titans engage, And the Lost Cause departs like a ghost from the stage. ’Tis past, like a dream of the dawning in air, For thee, the world’s pageant of Vanity Fair. All faded--those phantoms and dreams of the past, And crepe ties the flag as it falls to the mast. The dirge wails its sorrow to dead ears in vain; The pallbearers’ flag is the flag of the train, The traveler’s baggage lies all in one chest, Whose check is a coffin plate lettered “At Rest.” And Metairie’s vault opes its dark, narrow berth For the cold, pallid earth which returns to the earth. As I rode o’er the mountain I saw not how high Its pine-covered summit ascended the sky. ’Twas a mere undulation that rose from the plain-- But, as journeying on, I beheld it again, The veil of Omnipotence spread like a shroud On its brow, that looked down on the loftiest cloud. So our lives were too near to those lives which expired When the battle of freedom our continent fired. To measure their valor and virtue aright-- Our vision is dim when too close to the light. Thou, Lincoln, sad martyr, just, generous, brave; A hero of heroes Omnipotence gave To mortals in molding thy gaunt, rugged face; Like Cromwell, no smooth dilettante in grace; But counting all power, glory, life itself, naught, Till the duty assigned thee by Heaven was wrought. O voice of humanity whose exquisite tone Like the moan of the sea breathed a sadness its own-- As the sea mourns the infinite dead ’neath its waves, So mourned his great soul for war’s infinite graves-- How oft did the widow and orphan rejoice In the counsel and sympathy toned in that voice; Where sorrow abounded did his love more abound, Like the hand of a woman who nurses a wound, Like the lullaby sung to a babe at the breast Till singer and sufferer sink to sweet rest; It cheered the bruised hearts of the children of toil Like the summer-night-dew which refreshes the soil; Like the Lamb of Redemption he went to the cross And our infinite gain was secured by his loss.