At rest—
Folded hands across his breast;
In the rest that was desired
By his murmured “I am tired.”
Not a shadow on his face,
Where a smile has left its trace
As though Death his marble lips
Touched with tender fingertips.
And we wonder if the peace
Which his form encompasseth
Is the glory of his life,
Or the majesty of death.
* * * *
And from all the land there comes,
As the requiems grandly surge,
With the lilt of muffled drums,
Sighing strains of Sorrow’s dirge.
Aye! A nation’s heart is rent
In the greatness of its throbs.
See the Gate of Grief unpent;
Hear a stricken nation’s sobs!
* * * *
At rest—
With his hands prone on his breast.
Weary hands, that rest today
From their pointing out the way;
Weary hands, that wrought for peace;
Hands that bade the warfare cease;
Weary hands—as white and fair
As the waxen lilies there.
Though his soul has journeyed on,
Still—there is the coming dawn,
And the Sorrow of Today
Bringeth Hope with her alway [sic].
* * * *
Who can sing a good man’s deeds?
Who can sing a good man’s worth,
When his wisdom planted seeds
That have bloomed o’er all the
earth,
When his wondrous mind and hand
Have achieved results sublime?
They—a monument will stand
That endureth for all time.
* * * *
At rest—
Quiet hands across his breast.
And the West shall bring her rose,
And the South her lilies white,
And the daisies of the North
Be the stars in Sorrow’s night.
Aye, the West shall bring her rose,
And the East her violet,
And the garland of them all
With a nation’s tears be wet.
