“God’s Will, Not Ours Be Done”

The hour, was near, oh, man of matchless mould!
Oh, spirit grand! ennobled by the touch
Of God-like thought, that swept athwart a soul,
Filled with the melody of good to man.
Sad hour, that marked the mystery of life,
When death stood waiting by a bed of pain
Where lay the nation’s chief, our president!
Bow’d heads and stricken hearts were with him there;
A people wept, aye, their prayers went up
To Him, who holds the destinies of Time,
The grandeur of earth’s splendor in His hands.
He spoke,—“Bring her, my wife to me,”—voices
From out the long ago, echoed the thought,
And told the story of love’s years gone by,—
The story beautiful; Love ever young
For them, came near, and whispered once again,
That sweetest vow, “Till death us part,” and then
Into that silent chamber came, the wife;
They led her where the conscious statesman lay;
The dying husband’s eyes were on her there;
A smile lit up his face, and hand in hand
As once before, and oft thro’ many years,
God and the angels heard love’s sweetest vows.
And so they come to us,—aye soul to soul
[In?] lov’d communion, ere the moment came
When from its earthly prison house of clay,
His spirits fled to join the throng immortal.
And she, fair, frail and delicate, but strong
In wifely faith and trust, look’d up to heav’n
With him, and Love’s sweet silence told again
The story of the years; into each others [sic] eyes
Once more they look’d, in fondest tenderness:
The chords of being trembled at the touch
Of memory’s hand; youth came once more,
And sat beside them, whispering tales that none
But lover’s [sic] hearts may ever know; manhood
Sweet womanhood, that came to each, and laid
Their hands, “upon they twain” and they were one
In wed’ed bliss; and joy and pleasure came,
And with them walk’d, thro’ flowery paths led on
Their way, tho’ oft-times mark’d with grief and pain.
And honor came, and on the noble brow
Of him, whose modest worth was known of all,
The nation placed, the well earn’d wreath of fame:
And glory claims him for her own, and she
Who with him sat, as Hope’s fair sails were spread
To catch the breeze from Love’s eternal shore.
Evening and silence! hand in hand, aye soul to soul!
For in the tear-dimm’d eyes of each, was read,
The story of an earthly love that never dies.
The tired hand, that clasped that other hand,
Held closer still the then white fingers, and the voice
Once eloquent, to chain the waiting throngs, murmur’d,
Good bye dear heart! “God’s Will, Not Ours, Be Done!”

     Leadville, Colo., Sept. 19, 1901.