In the Temple of Music is heard a moan
That echoes throughout the land;
A people’s ruth and a people’s woe,
The righteous wrath that freemen know
Speaks in that cry so deep and low
Rising on every hand!
In the City of Light, in a quiet home,
A patient sufferer lies;
For seven long days that seem like years
A nation watches with prayers and tears,
With mighty hopes and struggling fears
Till death has won the prize! [477][478]
In the stately east room, lo! a shrouded form
Lies silent and kingly there,
While guards from land and ocean keep
Their tireless vigil o’er his sleep,
And a lonely woman wakes to weep,
And miss his sheltering care.
’Neath the Capitol’s fair and wondrous dome
A simple casket stands,
Girt round with solemn, sorrowing throngs,
And rise the notes of Christian songs,
While many a voice their strain prolongs
In this and other lands.
In his Canton home lies the martyred chief,
His last sad journey o’er;
Though friends and comrades weep farewell
And tolls each town and village bell,
His name, the nation’s heart-throbs tell,
“Will live forevermore!”
Peckville, Pa.
