OUR DEAD PRESIDENT.
The sound of muffled drums is heard, The dull boom of the minute-gunBreaks on the sunlit morning air; The tale is told—the deed is done.
A nation's mighty pulse is stirred With grief and sorrow, all too deepTo find expression save in tears; In sacred silence let us weep,—
Weep for our chieftain's head laid low Before the vile assassin's thrust;A country's hope in fair, fresh flower Down-trodden to the very dust.
The world looks on with bated breath, And shrinks affrighted from the blowThat spread the pall of death abroad, And draped the whole fair land with woe;
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