To-Day the Dahlgren and the drum Are dread Apostles of His Name; His Kingdom here can only come By chrism of blood and flame. Be strong: already slants the gold Athwart these wild and stormy skies; From out this blackened waste, behold What happy homes shall rise! But see thou well no traitor gloze, Betray the sacred blood that flows And never fear a victor foe: Thy children's hearts are strong and high; Nor mourn too fondly; - well they know On deck or field to die. Nor shalt thou want one willing breath, Though, ever smiling round the brave, The blue sea bear us on to death, U.S. Flag-ship Hartford, Mobile Bay, H. H. BROWNELL. ABRAHAM LINCOLN. FOULLY ASSASSINATED APRIL 14, 1865. You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier, You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace, Broad for the self-complacent British sneer. His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face, His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair, His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, His lack of all we prize as debonair, Of power or will to shine, of art to please; You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh, Judging each step as though the way were plain; Reckless, so it could point its paragraph Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain: Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew, Between the mourners at his head and feet, Say, scurrile jester, is there room for you? Yes: he had lived to shame me from my sneer, To lame my pencil, and confute my pen; To make me own this hind of princes peer, This rail-splitter a true-born king of men. |