Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN, by NEAL" "NEFF [PSEUD.]



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN, by                    
First Line: Of him who stood foremost in this mighty age
Last Line: "that the soil be not curs'd by the blood of the slave, / now the land of the free and the home of t
Alternate Author Name(s): "neff, Neal;
Subject(s): "american Civil War;assassination;lincoln, Abraham (1809-1865);nations;presidents, United States;u.s. - History;


Written at Goldsboro', North Carolina, on receipt
of the news of this tragic event. What a strange
coincidence of Time! It will be remembered that
it was on Good Friday, and on the 14th of April.

Of him who stood foremost in this mighty age,
Whose goodness is praised by the saint and the sage,
While his great-hearted kindness the poet doth sing,
Like the widow's two mites, our tribute we bring.

A long night of darkness is passing away,
Athwart the broad land comes the glorious day
Of peace and of joy and of glory and gladness,
But the brightness of morning is turned into sadness.

Yes, the joy of the nation is turned into gloom,
As true freedom's flowers just burst into bloom;
But his virtues, like flowers, doth cast their perfume,
And like a halo of glory they light up his tomb.

Mysterious Providence, inscrutable ways,
The victim selected, on the altar he lays,
The altar of sacrifice, freedom's oblation,
Whose blood thus atones for the sins of the nation.

On the same day the Saviour of mankind was slain
For doom'd fallen man, his pardon to obtain;
The ball of the assassin enters his brain,
A martyr he falls in the morning of fame.

How strange the coincidence, the time when he falls,
On the day over Sumpter's [sic] battle-scarred walls
Was both lowered and raised the flag of the free,
Laid low in the morning of his glory should be.

That citadel home of magnanimous thought,
With a nation's best interest of humanity fraught,
By a murderous missile which crashes his brain,
With his heroes of freedom, he lies with the slain.

Yes, he falls with his heroes, our chief magistrate,
Whose giant mind piloted the great ship of state
Through the battle and storm of the long dark night,
To the glorious morning, so peaceful and bright.

Says the soldier and patriot, whose bosom doth swell,
Is there not some "chosen curse" which justice can tell,
To punish the murderer whose garments doth smell
Like the fumes of the pit, so red hot from hell.

Yes, his name shall be curs'd in all future ages,
Through the tablets of time, on history's pages,
When gone to his place, the black soul of this Booth,
When millions unborn shall read the sad truth.

Since the days of the Saviour, no greater than he
Graced the great halls of State, so noble and free,
So kind yet so firm, and such powers of soul,
To seek for the nation the good of the whole.

His mantle of charity, like a halo which glows,
Melting the prejudice in the hearts of his foes,
And when vengeance is his, this mantle he throws
O'er the land of the South, to heal their sad woes.

How strange and how sad -- Oh! it seems like a dream,
That his blood should thus swell the deep crimson stream
Which flow'd like a river, through the land to the sea,
Through the land of the brave, now the home of the free.

Yes, he died with his heroes, his country to save,
And the high hopes of mankind from liberty's grave,
That the soil be not curs'd by the blood of the slave,
Now the land of the free and the home of the brave.





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