Classic Poem

There is mourning by our altars,
There is silence in our halls —
Weeps the genius of our country,
Weeps the warder on her walls;
Bright young eyes are dim with sorrow,
Strong, brave hearts are sad and lorn,
Wherefore comes the heavy shadow?
Wherefore do the people mourn?

Is our happy land invaded?
Does the ruthless foeman's tread
Desecrate our sacred-hearthstones
And the green graves of our dead?
Is the battle clarion pealing
O'er our sunny plains and hills?
Does the life-blood of our brothers
Mingle with our sparkling rills?

No; there is no clarion pealing,
And we hear no foeman's tread;
But our land is clad in sackcloth,
For a noble champion dead —
One she cradled on her bosom,
In her hour of doubt and fear,
When her brow was bound with shadows,
When her way was dim and drear.

One who, with her brave defenders,
Strove with heart, and mind, and might,
And a trust that never faltered
In the cause of human right.
One who lived to see her sitting,
With her ensign stars unfurled,
Like a city on a mountain,
Giving light to all the world.

He has fallen at the zenith
Of his glory and renown,
Ere a single leaf had faded
In his radiant, laurel crown,
But the work that Heaven appointed
To his long, long life is done,
And his weary soul is resting
In the starry goal it won.

With adoring love for Freedom,
Scorn of old Oppression's rod,
And a genius fused and kindled
At the altar of our God,
He could sweep the human heart-strings,
As the minstrel sweeps the lyre,
To all passions, all emotions,
By his soul's electric fire.

Never, in our country's forum,
Blazed a brighter, broader light;
Never fought a braver spirit,
In the battle for the right.
Lay him down to sleep in Ashland,
With his broken household band —
Pilgrim feet to that Medina
Will go forth from many a land.