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Publication information
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Source: Threads of Gold Woven in Verse
Source type: book
Document type: poem
Document title: “Our Beloved President”
Author(s): Davies, James
Publisher: Dakota Republican
Place of publication: Vermillion, South Dakota
Year of publication: 1901
Pagination: 120-21

 
Citation
Davies, James. “Our Beloved President.” Threads of Gold Woven in Verse. Vermillion: Dakota Republican, 1901: pp. 120-21.
 
Transcription
full text
 
Keywords
McKinley assassination (poetry); William McKinley (death: poetry); William McKinley (mourning: poetry).
 
Named persons
Leon Czolgosz [in notes]; William McKinley [in notes].
 
Notes
From page 120: “William McKinley, shot by Leon Czolgosz in Temple of Music, Pan-American Exposition, Buffalo, N. Y., Sept. 6, 1901; died at Buffalo, Sept. 14, 1901.”

From title page: By Rev. James Davies.
 
Document

 

Our Beloved President

OUR chief magistrate lies dead upon our shore,
     Most sacred ties have been snapped in twain,
And our beloved President is now no more.
     By the dread assassin he was slain;
In that critical moment danger drew nigh—
By the anarchist he was doomed thus to die.

Ah, cruel fate, that did lurk and thus await
     Where the nation’s treasures did abound—
Within our Columbia’s Exposition gate
     In a moment stricken to the ground.
With his foe stood face to face, the flash, the sound,
By the bullet he was stricken to the ground.

In a flash the nation’s joy turned into grief,
     And a wail of sorrow reached the skies;
Millions of loyal subjects were forced to weep,
     As he was wounded before their eyes,
Fatally. By the assassin’s bullet’s sting
The nation’s heart in sorrow was made to ring.

The nation loved him, yea, she loves him now,
     From north to south and from east to west,
As they together in sable grief doth bow.
     The nation’s heart bleeds within her breast,
As she bows her head and in her anguish cry:
“My God, my God!” She sees her President die. [120][121]

Lower the Stars and Stripes: they with us shall mourn
     O’er the nation’s head in death so low,
And at half mast they shall float from eve to morn.
     In grief together his name adore,
Speak reverently underneath the pall of death—
The life has gone, the most vital spark, his breath.

The nation’s chief laid low, even with the dust—
     By his sudden death our spirits crushed;
Whilst that vacant chair in the White House, so lone,
     Shines more lustrous than a monarch’s throne.
Tread softly, speak gently, grief our hearts consume,
As we lay him away in the silent tomb.

Ye heavens bow down and mingle with our grief—
     Through these trying times thus guide us safe.
Whilst o’er his demise we in our sorrow weep,
     We commend to thee our ship of state.
Go thou before our face and thus guide our way—
Bring us through the gloom into the light of day.

We stand to-day through him where we never stood
     Before. “Cuba’s Island” he has freed
By the great sacrifice of our nation’s blood—
     ’T was a noble act, sublime indeed.
He’s the noble hero of the present age,
Written not with ink on our history’s page.

Our President’s blood is crying from the ground.
     And shall it to us thus cry in vain?
Traitors within the camp! It’s the bugle sound!
     They our noble President have slain!
Justice it demands! Shall we that justice give?
To arms, if need be: our liberty must live.

 

 


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