All hushed is traffic’s strident roar,
And from the East to Western shore,
And from Alaska’s frigid clime,
Comes back the throbbing funeral chime,
And southward flows to Mexico,
The herald of a Nation’s woe;
With lagging step and drooping head,
Columbia stops beside her dead.
Beside her dead! about whose form—
Now stilled to all life’s stress and storm,
In mourning folds below, above,
Is draped the banner of his love—
And he sleeps well! across his brow
No cares shall cast their shadow now,
But all one land can bear of woe
Is now Columbia’s meed to know!
Fair was his life—an open book,
Where all who chose or cared to look
Might read, and for each battle won
Find there the spur that urged him on;
A hope born for the Nation’s weal,
That only heart like his could feel;
And now bowed down, eyes dim with grief,
Columbia weeps her fallen chief!
A Nation garbed in sorrow’s weeds
Looks back, and weighing all his deeds,
All he hath done and hoped to do—
Her pent up grief bursts forth anew,
She lifts the cup, droops to her knees,
And drains it to the bitter lees!
The pageantry of woe is done,
May God receive [h]er martyred son!