Classic Poem

If he could know! we say; could he but know
A nation's grief above his stricken form;
What tears are shed; how tender, pure, and warm,
From eyes unused to weeping, fast they flow!

If he could know how bitterly they rain
For words that had no depth of root at all;
If he could feel them on his fragrant pall
Dropping among the flowers like welcome rain!

If he could know that it has all come back, —
The love we bore him in the days of old;
When he among the boldest was so bold
To tempt the flame of slavery's lurid rack!

If he could know how prudence fought with love
In hearts that did him silent reverence still;
How hard it was to strike through him to kill
The hydra that so long against him strove!

If he could know that from his burning speech
We learned such hate and horror of his foe —
The foe of all — that we perforce were slow
To deem it fled for ever out of reach!

If he could know how death has brushed away
The films of passion from our aching eyes;
How through our tears again we see him rise
To the full stature of an earlier day!

It may not be. He lieth cold and still;
The fire is out that burned in that great frame
With genial warmth, anon with searing flame.
It may not be, call loudly as you will.

It may not be? Look up to heaven above!
It is not he that lieth cold and dead.
The garment this; the man himself has sped
To higher seats and tasks of purer love.

But nought of all the glory that abounds
In his new home does he so precious deem
As these fond tears that o'er his ashes stream,
While his great spirit walks its higher rounds.