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James Whitcomb Riley - Morton
Work rating: Low

The warm pulse of the nation has grown chill;
    The muffled heart of Freedom, like a knell,
Throbs solemnly for one whose earthly will
    Wrought every mission well.

Whose glowing reason towered above the sea
    Of dark disaster like a beacon light,
And led the Ship of State, unscathed and free,
    Out of the gulfs of night.

When Treason, rabid-mouthed, and fanged with steel,
    Lay growling o`er the bones of fallen braves,
And when beneath the tyrant`s iron heel
    Were ground the hearts of slaves,

And War, with all his train of horrors, leapt
    Across the fortress-walls of Liberty
With havoc e`en the marble goddess wept
    With tears of blood to see.

Throughout it all his brave and kingly mind
    Kept loyal vigil o`er the patriot`s vow,
And yet the flag he lifted to the wind
    Is drooping o`er him now.

And Peace--all pallid from the battle-field
    When first again it hovered o`er the land
And found his voice above it like a shield,
    Had nestled in his hand.

    .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .

O throne of State and gilded Senate halls--
    Though thousands throng your aisles and galleries--
How empty are ye! and what silence falls
    On your hilarities!

And yet, though great the loss to us appears,
    The consolation sweetens all our pain--
Though hushed the voice, through all the coming years
    Its echoes will remain.
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