Precious the tears shall be the Nation weeps, And sacred be the sod where Lincoln sleeps. His fame shall be the jewel of the West, Like a rich pearl on Beauty’s throbbing breast. Mourn, O ye Mountains!--altars of the sky-- Fit monuments of him who cannot die; Mourn, loud Atlantic! let thy thunder-dirge Chant the sad requiem with Pacific’s surge. Mourn, O New England! on thy granite base. Mourn, Illinois, thy desolate dwelling-place; Kentucky, mourn! thy second God-like son Sleeps in the dust, life’s duty nobly done; Mourn, Tennessee! The Hero of the Age Sleeps with the Lion of the Hermitage; Chanted the melancholy song shall be, By all thy streams which hasten to the sea, While Nashville’s echoing wall of cedared hills With mournful cadence all the valley fills. WASHINGTON’S BIRTHDAY ODE. [Written for a celebration given by the young ladies of Elder Enos Campbell’s School, Hopkinsville, February 22, 1861.] Hero, whose ashes sleep By Vernon’s sacred steep, Sire of the free! To-day thy name be blessed North, South, East and West, And swell each patriot’s breast With love to thee. Through tempests drear and dark The Union’s holy ark Thy hand did guide; The ark which rode the flood Of Revolution’s blood For freedom’s mighty God Was on thy side. Where’er thy eagles flew The world our glory knew In war and peace. Safe ’neath the fig and vine Our fathers did recline, And field and wave and mine Gave rich increase. Oh, that to-day might yield Once more the sword and shield Of Washington! Then freedom’s songs sublime Should peal in thrilling chime And, ’til remotest time, The States be one. TO APRIL. [DEDICATED TO THE WEATHER BUREAU.] (Begun April 1.) Sweet month of blue-eyed violets and fools, I’m glad to see you, dear. Take off your bonnet, While to your praise I pen a flowing sonnet. A thousand misses in the boarding-schools Now do the same on gilt-edged, scented paper, And bite their nails and trim the midnight taper. The clear lake like a polished mirror glows In the seraphic loveliness of morn; The speckled trout leap from their crystal pools, Waking the startled skylark’s mellow horn; On every hand new beauties still are born, Till lingering sunset’s amethystine blaze Illumes the vault of heaven with its far-streaming rays. (Finished April 10.)