Welcome to MAIWelcome to MAI


"Hello, I'm William McKinley."
partial cover image from "American Boys' Life of William McKinley"                                              
About MAI
Disclaimer
Help MAI


Who I Am
Contact Me



 


Publication information
view printer-friendly version
Source: Sunday Morning Star
Source type: newspaper
Document type: poem
Document title: “The Dead President”
Author(s): England, Howell S.
City of publication: Wilmington, Delaware
Date of publication: 15 September 1901
Volume number: 21
Issue number: none
Pagination: 4

 
Citation
England, Howell S. “The Dead President.” Sunday Morning Star 15 Sept. 1901 v21: p. 4.
 
Transcription
full text
 
Keywords
William McKinley (death: poetry); William McKinley (poetry).
 
Named persons
none.
 
Notes
“Written for The Star” (p. 4).
 
Document

 

The Dead President

After all the anxious wait,
After Hope’s prolonged debate,
After all the prayers we said,
All is over, he is dead.
Fold his hands upon his breast,
Close his eyelids; let him rest.

Ages yet unborn shall own
Their’s the harvest he hath sown.
In the islands of the seas,
Through the future centuries,
Shall the peoples he made free
Reverence his memory.

He hath made our flag to fly
Far beneath the Eastern sky,
Where our brothers we protect,
Where, as rise those nations vast,
From their slumbers of the past,
We may help them stand erect.

O, my country, nevermore,
Shall thy bounding ocean shore
Bound thine influence benign,
Henceforth Freedom rests as calm
Underneath the tropic palm
As beneath the northern pine:

But the man who shaped thy way
Lieth still in death to-day:
Fold his hands upon his breast,
Close his eyelids; let him rest.

For his statesmanship we bring
Honor’s choicest offering!

For his nature, gentle, kind,
Love and love alone we find;
Never yet hath lover led
Bride unto the bridal bed
With a tenderer love than he
Showed his poor wife constantly,
Frail as is a broken reed,
Childless and with health undone,
Ever found she in her need,
His strong arm to lean upon!

Such his heart her life to bless!
Such his love, his tenderness!

He who held that wife so dear,
Can her call no longer hear;
He who was a Nation’s head,
Cold he lieth, he is dead.
Fold his hands upon his breast,
He hath found eternal rest.

 

 


top of page