Source: Newark Sunday Call
Source type: newspaper
Document type: poem
Document title: “M’Kinley’s Last Speech: ‘Concord, Not Conflict’”
Author(s): C., J. C.
City of publication: Newark, New Jersey
Date of publication: 29 September 1901
Volume number: 30
Issue number: 1537
|C., J. C. “M’Kinley’s Last Speech: ‘Concord, Not Conflict.’” Newark Sunday Call 29 Sept. 1901 v30n1537: part 1, p. 6.|
|William McKinley (poetry); William McKinley (last public address: poetry).|
The condition of the newspaper (an online scanned document) is poor in places, rendering selected letters/words difficult or impossible to read.
The poor print quality likewise makes it impossible to be certain whether the author’s initials are “J. C. C.” or “J. O. C.”
M’Kinley’s Last Speech: “Concord, Not Conflict”
How [“]All the world do[t]h love a [l]over”
In kinship of [t]he heart!
Throughout the ages still [must?] hover
This truth for sorrow’s smart.
Fo[r] love h[e] battled ’neath the [f]lag;
As angel to his wife,
The lo[ve] that kn[e]w not how to lag
Gr[e]w ri[c]h[e]r still t[hr]o’ lif[e.]
Twi[c]e he refus[e]d the highest gift
Wh[e]n honor whispe[r]ed [“]No[!]”
And twi[ce] the pe[o]pl[e]’s l[ov]e uplift
So high th[a]t thr[one]s s[ee]m low[.]
In love he li[v]ed, in love h[e died;]
And from th[a]t lo[v]e hath sprung
The n[o]blest [message] tru[e] and wide
Of any m[o]rtal tongue:
“Who helps another helps himself,
And so it is ‘[Love pays?];’
Thus not alone for sordid pelf
Sh[o]uld nati[o]ns sp[e]nd their days.
“The pow[e]r that smites may smitten be
Till naught but woe b[e] found.
The p[o]w[e]r that lo[v]es thro’ l[o]ve sh[a]ll see
The truest weal[t]h abound.
“Oh, purblind nations, [‘C]onflict’ cease,
In ‘[Conc]ord’ h[elp ea]ch oth[er.]
The Serm[o]n on th[e] M[ou]nt meant Peace,
E[ac]h [nation] like a b[ro]ther.”
They’ve bowed the head, they’ve poured the t[e]ar—
The n[a]ti[o]ns of the earth—
For love h[a]th [co]nquered [e]v’ry fear,
To “Concord” given birth.
Eternal “Conflict” seemed to sway
The pow[e]rs of the world;
The well-[belov’d], just [pa]ssed away,
It’s battle flag hath [f]urled.
So, “All the world d[o]th love a lover,”
For [e]v[e]ry n[a]ti[o]n w[eep]s.
See love its poten[c]y discover
While our true lover sleeps.
Sep[t]ember 19, 101.