Cofachiqui, and Other Poems/Garfield memorial
GARFIELD MEMORIAL.
IT is over! It is done! Death has conquered! Hear the knell Pealing slowly from each bell,And the solemn roar of gun.
See the country's banner bright, Which the stars of heaven adorn, Gay with colors of the morn,Wreathed with hue of stormy night.
From lakes to gulf, from sea to sea, One universal funeral pall So deep and dark envelops all,Surpassing strange and sad to see.
In any age or any land The mightiest king who e'er laid down At Death's command the jeweled crownHad never obsequies so grand;
Had for him flags at half-mast hung Around the world-his grave ne'er knew A hundred million mourners trueOf kindred race and common tongue.
But these imposing rites of grief Are for a plain and simple man, But higher rank holds no one thanA grand republic's fitting chief.
Well were his worth and valor tried On Chicamauga's dreadful day, When Bragg's impetuous legions grayCame rushing like a stormy tide;
And burst like torrent o'er its banks— 'Mid leaden rain and thunder crash And war-cloud dun and lightning flashThey broke the Northmen's reeling ranks.
But when that dismal day was done, As bravely as the knights of old E'er fighting won their spurs of goldHis wreath of double stars was won.
But not upon that bloody field Was such high courage e'er displayed As when upon his death-bed laidHe fought with death and would not yield.
And through that contest long and drear, When fate in trembling balance hung, Full many a million hearts were wrungWith mingled hope, suspense and fear.
They hoped that somehow nature's laws Might be defied by his strong will And highest human healing skillMight snatch him from Death's cruel jaws.
They felt the pang of hope deferred Till vanished hope like cloud-wrapped star, When one sad midnight trembled farAlong the wires the dreaded word.
A strange coincidence appears: From Chicamauga's bloody day Till dead the gallant Garfield layHad passed just eighteen years.
It seems vagary strange, his fate, Unscathed by war's wild rage, to fall Slain by a coward mean and small,And he offenseless, brave and great.
But well for him and well for all— Well for his great and growing fame, Distinction high and deathless name,That he did not in battle fall,
Did not in that mad tumult pass To join that almost countless throng— That roll of martyr braves so longWe can but mourn and praise en masse.
For little knew the millions then How large of brain and large of heart, How fit to play a noble partHe was, as chief 'mong mighty men.
Long, long bent o'er his dying bed In dread suspense a nation hung, And foes who with sword, pen and tongueHave fought him living bless him dead.
The high, dark waves of party strife, The war-engendered passions strong, The bitter feuds nursed hot and long,Sank still and cold as ebbed his life.
Closed is the breach 'twixt South and North; When dies the common country's chief Throbs hot with lightning words of griefEach wire from Dixie stretching forth.
The ocean-sundered Saxon race Grief shows yet bound by one strong chord, And Britain's queen and London's lordAmong the mourners take their place.
The dirges on our prairies rise, They're echoed back from Shannon's vale, The banks of Clyde prolong the wailAnd Thames's millions add their sighs.
Heaven grant our land that long may last The holy peace 'round Garfield's bier; That the quenched fires of hate may ne'erBlaze forth again as in the past.
It was not thus when Lincoln died— When lost to us that precious life High rose again the waves of strife;He, living, might have stayed the tide.
The evil is—let good come thence, That not to us a second time Shall be th' assassin's horrid crimeDeep loss without a recompense.