To the Nation’s Dead

Yon cloud-craped mountains sadly stand
          About thy tomb;
The mountains of a mighty land
          Are robed in gloom.
Strong oaks drip tears upon the sod,
          On mount, in dell;
While slender bluebells droop and nod,
          To ring thy knell.

The sobbing ocean sweeps the bar,
          And breaks in moans,—
Re-echoing from the deep afar
          Its minor tones;
Along the reef the choral waves
          Recede and surge,
And choir with winds o’er deep sea-graves,
          A solemn dirge.

Resigned to all the ways of God,
          In peace he sleeps;
Columbia, bowed above the sod,
          In silence weeps.
We feel, we know that love is locked
          Within a tear;
And ne’er is heart of courage mocked
          By slavish fear.

The silent stars from somber heights,
          And lonely towers,
Enhallow all these simple rites
          And forms of ours,— [44][45]
Upon the altars of our pain
          Heaven’s radiance shed,—
Renew the promise, Man again
          Shall live, though dead.