The Death of Lincoln

Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare,Gentle and merciful and just!Who, in the fear of God, didst bearThe sword of power, a nation's trust!

In sorrow by thy bier we stand,Amid the awe that hushes all,And speak the anguish of a landThat shook with horror at thy fall.

Thy task is done; the bond of free;We bear thee to an honored grave,Whose proudest monument shall beThe broken fetters of the slave.

Pure was thy life; its bloody closeHath placed thee with the sons of light,Among the noble host of thoseWho perished in the cause of Right.