Poems (Eaton)/The Patriot Martyr

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THE PATRIOT MARTYR.
Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States, assassinated April, 1865.
WHAT mean these startling bursts of woe, That echo our green hills along?A nation's tears—why should they flow? But yesterday the strains of songAnd triumph pealed on every breeze, That wafted freshness o'er the earth,Bringing, with spring, new promises Of a free, loyal country's birth.
What mean they, the sad, drooping eye? The compress'd lip? The sorrowing look?Hand clasping hand so silently? Voice answering voice, with sobbing shook?Why, scarcely hushed, their chimes so deep, Of joy upon the ravished ear,Wail out the bells in tones that weep, Curdling the listener's blood to hear?
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Those speaking drops, the tears that fall Unchecked from tender woman's eye,Nor shame the manliest cheek of all, Flow, that a friend so loved should die—While black-draped flag at half-mast hung, Gives token of a people's grief,And muffled bells, with mournful tongue, Toll for the Nation's honored Chief.
What, though when household forms decay, The thorns of anguish keener press,Revealing in the torturing ray To every heart its bitterness,Yet, from stern Death's remorseless bow, Never before was arrow sentLike this, so fraught with wide-spread woe, Which martyred our loved President.
Loved by the good and true, his fame Enshrines itself in every heartWhere honor's uncorrupted name In simple freshness shares a part—Loved by the slave, whose stifled prayer Came sighing up for liberty,And pleading, gained assurance there, From one great soul that he was free.
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Loved by the soldier witness him Whose grateful voice was upward sentFrom battle-field, with eye grown dim In death, "God bless the President,"—Loved most by those who knew him best, And winning hearts where'er he moved,His eulogy in loyal breast, "We feared him not, we only loved."
With him our cherished visions fell, We trusted that it had been heWho should redeem our Israel, And set us first among the free—But in His sight who knoweth best, His life-work has been fully done,And to the Father's promised rest, We yield our Nation's noblest one.
Eyes dimmed with tears are raised to Heaven, Hands wrung in anguish lifted up,Hearts bleeding, and with terror riven, Anchor on high their only hope,That He, by whose permission, comes Sorrow and joy on either hand,Will pilot safely through the storm To peaceful port, our stricken land.
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