The Death of President William McKinley

They tell us that our chief is [dead?],
Slain by a demon’s hand,
That Anarchists devised the plot,
In freedom’s holy land;
That he approached our President,
In friendship’s hallowed guise,
And sent the deadly bullet home
Before the nation’s eyes.

He took the chieftain’s loving hand
With weapon all concealed,
And shot the grandest man that lived
Beneath our spangled shield.
Shot him who bowed his noble soul
To men of every shade
Shot him who gave his honest hand
To men of every grade.

No man can say with aught of truth
McKinley was his foe
He counseled kindness to the fiend
That struck the tragic blow,
When blood was flowing from his wounds,
And strength was failing fast
He turned and on that cruel fiend,
A look of pity cast.

No wonder Czolgosz’s lips are closed
Mute as the lips of death
Those pistol shots have sealed his doom
And nations hold their breath,
It shocks the stoutest human heart,
To know the tale is true,
And in a land of christian light,
Such monsters come to view.

“God moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform:
He plants his footsteps on the sea,
And rides upon the storm.”
’Tis true our loved McKinley sleeps,
To wake not here again,
But God can make that final sleep
A power with living men.

We wonder oft that good men die,
In manhood’s brilliant bloom;
We wonder at the Providence
That hides them in the tomb.
’Tis just because we cannot see,
Beyond the dying bed,
To God who sees all through the gloom,
McKinley is not dead.

No Anarchist with blood dyed hand,
Could cause McKinley’s death;
He only changed the course of life,
By robbing him of breath.
He lives in every patriot’s heart
As ne’er he lived before;
He lives at home—he lives abroad—
On every foreign shore.

No scene like this has ever dawned,
Since darkness veiled the sky,
When Jesus hung upon the cross,
For every man to die.
To-day his sorrow girds the world;
Earth’s bells ring out their chime.
The only wheels that move to-day,
Are God’s great wheels of Time.

Let Anarchists keep silence now,
And list the mighty tread,
Of those brave legions round the world
Who mourn McKinley dead.
Behold the casket moving on,
With strong men at its side,
And mark the cortege gathered in,
From nations far and wide.

Yes, we may weep around his bier,
For Jesus wept that day,
When in the cold and cheerless grave
A friend in silence lay.
Sleep on, O honored chief, sleep on,
Thy tomb is glory’s bed.
Not until reason is dethroned,
Will love’s last tear be shed.

To-day we lay thee out of sight,
But memory holds thee dear;
That heart is bound with icy chains,
That sheds for thee no tear.
A spire shall rise above thy form,
To tell each coming age
Where sleeps our martyred President,
The Christian and the Sage.

     Sept. 19, 1901.