Our Martyred President

America mourns! her sons and their sires,
Men from abroad send grief o’er the wires;
Matrons and daughters shed many a tear,
For McKinley, our idol, lies cold on his bier. [126][127]

From the home of the chosen, you decided to go,
And make them a visit at old Buffalo;
To the vilest of demons you extended your hand,
While the fatal shot fell thee, O, pride of our land!

’Twas few days thou linger’st, and death relieved pain,
Men spoke of recovery again and again;
At last came this message: “All hope is now fled.
Czolgosz is a murderer; the President’s dead.”

To the martyr’s bier his remains they soon bore;
Lincoln and Garfield have slept there before;
Three noble men, who ruled well our lands,
All brought to their tombs by murderers’ hands.

Wher’er the stars shine thy absence is felt;
May the blessings of God rest on Roosevelt;
May he execute plans o’er the Land of the Free,
And well fill the seat vacated by thee.

All flags are half-masted on this mournful day,
And slowly they tread as they bear thee away;
Thou hast well done thy duty by all from thy goal—
McKinley, our hero, sweet peace to thy soul!