What bloody phantom with a brow of wrath Stalks in the van of our triumphal path, And o’er our banners flings a funeral veil, Till Heaven grows black and mortal cheeks grow pale? ’Twas in the halls of mirth, a gala night, Bright lamps o’er joyful thousands shed their light, The nation’s Father sat amid the throng, Relaxed his brow and heard the festal song; He dreams not of conspiracy, nor sees Above his head the sword of Damocles; Wide opes the sepulchre its marble jaws, All nature seems to make a breathless pause; The deadly aim is made--the death-shot flies, And Freedom’s martyr passes to the skies. Oh, Statesman, Hero, Patriot, Friend, and Sire, Now the pale tenant of a funeral pyre, Whose red right hand four years has held the rod, The minister of Freedom and of God, Yet with the rod the blooming olive held, While the dark deluge of rebellion swelled And thundered round our Ark--an Argosy More dear than all the jewels of the sea, And still with outstretched arms essayed to save The shipwrecked seamen from the yawning wave! Thy love was strong as woman’s--who like thee Their interceding angel now shall be? A genial wit, a homely native sense, Nearer to truth than studied eloquence, A quiet courage to defend the right, And leave to Heaven the issue of the fight; A will of adamant, which seemed to be The very flower of maiden modesty, A conscience, holding truth of greater worth Than all the crowns and treasures of the earth; A love, whose strong affections seemed to bind In one the happiness of all mankind; These were the jewels whose celestial flame Shall burn with quenchless glow round Lincoln’s name, The virtues which shall make his memory dear While Justice reigns in yon eternal sphere. And millions shall lament, with honest grief, The People’s friend and Freedom’s fallen chief; The huntsman shall forget the eager chase, And pause to wipe his weatherbeaten face, The daring sailor, on the distant sea, Shall shed a teardrop to his memory; The widow’s tears shall quench her cottage fire, The soldier’s orphan moan his second sire. There need no glittering trappings of the tomb, No martial dirge, nor hearse with nodding plume, To tell their grief; but words devoid of art Show how this stroke has pierced the Nation’s heart.