CHAPTER XLVII.
Poems in Memory of Garfield, by Longfellow.--George Parsons Lathrop.--From _London Spectator_.--Oliver Wendell Holmes.--N. Bernard Carpenter.--John Boyle O'Reilly.--Joaquin Miller. M. J. Savage.--Julia Ward Howe.--Rose Terry Cooke.--Prize Ode.--Kate Tannett Woods.
To the tributes we have already given, we add a few of the many fine poems published in memory of the martyred President.
PRESIDENT GARFIELD.
BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
"_E venni dal martirio a questa pace._"
These words the poet heard in Paradise, Uttered by one who, bravely dying here, In the true faith, was living in that sphere, Where the Celestial Cross of sacrifice Spread its protecting arms athwart the skies; And, set thereon, like jewels crystal clear, The souls magnanimous, that knew not fear, Flashed their effulgence on his dazzled eyes. Ah, me! how dark the discipline of pain, Were not the suffering followed by the sense Of infinite rest and infinite release! This is our consolation; and again A great soul cries to us in our suspense: "I come from martyrdom unto this peace!"
CAMBRIDGE, MASS, Sept 26, 1881.
_The Independent._
GARFIELD, PRESIDENT OF THE PEOPLE.
(Died Sept. 19, 1881.)
What is this silence, that calls? What is this deafness that hears? The silence is Death. Like a voice it falls; It rings in the heedless ears
That never shall hearken again To the words of our blame or praise, Nor the low-hushed moan of a nation's pain As it rolls through the darkened days!
And the motionless body must yield To the spell of that hushed command. Oh, that one of us, dying, had been the shield To save that life for our land!
Man that was trusted of men-- Brave, and not fearing to die More than to face life's meanness, when It clamored its partisan lie!
Though you leave us, we lose you not! In the Republic you live Sacred, and part of its deathless lot, For whose life your life you give.
Garfield--the name so plain, The name we knew so well!-- The name we shall never forget again, Of the man who for honesty fell!
Like another Winkelried, You drew to yourselves the spears Of tyrannous hate, though yourself must bleed; And left us--our pride and our tears.
Legacy meet and rare, Of one who dared to be pure! In the hearts of the people who love what is fair, That precious renown shall endure.
O sorrow that falls like a stone In the midst of the calm of our peace, As the waves of pity around you have grown, So may our truth increase!
GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP.
IN ENGLAND, Sept. 20, 1881.
_New York Tribune._
PRESIDENT GARFIELD.
The hush of the sick-room; the muffled tread; Fond, questioning eye; mute lip, and listening ear; Where wife and children watch 'twixt hope and fear, A father's, husband's living-dying bed!-- The hush of a great nation, when its head Lies stricken! Lo! along the streets he's borne, Pale, through rank'd crowds, this gray September morn, 'Mid straining eyes, sad brows unbonneted, And reverent speechlessness!--a "people's voice!" Nay but a peoples silence! through the soul Of the wide world its subtler echoes roll, O brother nation England for her part Is with thee: God willing she whose heart Throbbed with thy pain shall with thy joy rejoice.
SEPT. 6, 1881.
_London Spectator._
AFTER THE BURIAL.
BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
Fallen with autumns falling leaf, Ere yet his summers noon was past, Our friend, our guide, our trusted chief,-- What words can match a woe so vast?
And whose the chartered claim to speak The sacred grief where all have part, When sorrow saddens every cheek, And broods in every aching heart?
Yet nature prompts the burning phrase That thrills the hushed and shrouded hall, The loud lament, the sorrowing praise, The silent tear that love lets fall.
In loftiest verse, in lowliest rhyme, Shall strive unblamed the minstrel choir,-- The singers of the new born time, And trembling age with outworn lyre.
No room for pride, no place for blame-- We fling our blossoms on the grave, Pale, scentless, faded,--all we claim, This only,--what we had we gave.
Ah, could the grief of all who mourn Blend in one voice its bitter cry, The wail to heaven's high arches borne Would echo through the caverned sky.
II.
O happiest land whose peaceful choice Fills with a breath its empty throne! God, speaking through thy people's voice, Has made that voice for once his own.
No angry passion shakes the State Whose weary servant seeks for rest,-- And who could fear that scowling hate Would strike at that unguarded breast?
He stands, unconscious of his doom, In manly strength, erect, serene,-- Around him summer spreads her bloom: He falls,--what horror clothes the scene!
How swift the sudden flash of woe Where all was bright as childhood's dream! As if from heaven's ethereal bow Had leaped the lightning's arrowy gleam.
Blot the foul deed from history's page,-- Let not the all-betraying sun Blush for the day that stains an age When murder's blackest wreath was won.
III.
Pale on his couch the sufferer lies, The weary battle-ground of pain; Love tends his pillow, science tries Her every art, alas! in vain.
The strife endures how long! how long! Life, death, seem balanced in the scale; While round his bed a viewless throng Awaits each morrow's changing tale.
In realms the desert ocean parts, What myriads watch with tear filled eyes, His pulse beats echoing in their hearts, His breathings counted with their sighs!
Slowly the stories of life are spent, Yet hope still battles with despair,-- Will heaven not yield when knees are bent? Answer, O Thou that hearest prayer!
But silent is the brazen sky,-- On sweeps the meteor's threatening train,-- Unswerving Nature's mute reply Bound in her adamantine chain.
Not ours the verdict to decide Whom death shall claim or skill shall save: The hero's life though Heaven denied, It gave our land a martyr's grave.
Nor count the teaching vainly sent How human hearts their griefs may share,-- The lesson woman's love has lent What hope may do, what faith can bear!
Farewell! the leaf-strewn earth enfolds Our stay, our pride, our hopes, our fears, And autumn's golden sun beholds A nation bowed, a world in tears.
_Boston Globe._
SONNET--JAMES A. GARFIELD.
BY REV. H. BERNARD CARPENTER
Lo! as a pure white statue wrought with care By some strong hand, which moulds from Life and Death Beauty more beautiful than blood or breath, And straight 'tis veiled, and, whilst all men repair To see this wonder in the workshops there! Behold it gleams unveiled to curious eye Far-seen, high-placed in Art's pale gallery, Where all stand mute before a work so fair: So he, our man of men, in vision stands, With Pain and Patience crowned imperial, Death's veil has dropped, far from this house of woe He hears one love chant out of many lands, Whilst from his mystic noon-height he lets fall His shadow o'er these hearts that bleed below.
SEPT. 26, 1881.
_The Independent._
MIDNIGHT.
SEPTEMBER 19, 1881.
BY JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.
Once in a lifetime we may see the veil Tremble and lift, that hides symbolic things: The spirit's vision, when the senses fail, Sweeps the weird meaning that the outlook brings.
Deep in the midst of turmoil it may be,-- A crowded street, a forum, or a field,-- The soul inverts the telescope, to see To-day's event in future years revealed.
Back from the present, let us look at Rome; Now see what Cato meant, what Brutus said. Hark! the Athenians welcome Cimon home! How clear they are, those glimpses of the dead!
But we hard toilers, we who plan and weave Through common days the web of common life, What word, alas! shall teach us to receive The mystic meaning of our peace and strife?
Whence comes our symbol? Surely God must speak; No less than he can make us heed or pause: Self-seekers we, too busy or too weak To search beyond our daily lives and laws.
'Gainst things occult our earth-turned eyes rebel; No sound of destiny can reach our ears; We have no time for dreaming--Hark! a knell,-- A knell at midnight! All the nation hears!
A second grievous throb! The dreamers wake; The merchant's soul forgets his goods and ships; The humble workmen from their slumbers break; The women raise their eyes with quivering lips;
The miner rests upon his pick to hear; The printer's type stops midway from the case; The solemn sound has reached the roisterer's ear, And brought the shame and sorrow to his face.
Again it booms! Oh, mystic veil, upraise!-- Behold, 'tis lifted! On the darkness drawn, A picture, lined with light! The people's gaze, From sea to sea, beholds it till the dawn:
A death-bed scene--a sinking sufferer lies, Their chosen ruler, crowned with love and pride; Around, his counsellors, with streaming eyes; His wife, heart-broken, kneeling by his side:
Death's shadow holds her, it will pass too soon; She weeps in silence--bitterest of tears; He wanders softly--Nature's kindest boon, And as he whispers all the country hears.
For him the pain is past, the struggle ends: His cares and honors fade: his younger life In peaceful Mentor comes, with dear old friends; His mother's arms take home his sweet young wife;
He stands among the students, tall and strong, And teaches truths republican and grand: He moves--ah, pitiful!--he sweeps along, O'er fields of carnage leading his command!
He speaks to crowded faces; round him surge Thousands and millions of excited men: He hears them cheer, sees some great light emerge, Is borne as on a tempest: then--ah, then!
The fancies fade, the fever's work is past; A moment's pang--then recollections thrill: He feels the faithful lips that kiss their last, His heart beats once in answer, and is still!
The curtain falls; but hushed, as if afraid, The people wait, tear-stained, with heaving breast; 'Twill rise again, they know, when he is laid With Freedom, in the Capitol, at rest.
Once more they see him, in his coffin there, As Lincoln lay in blood-stained martyr sleep; The stars and stripes across his honored bier, While Freedom and Columbia o'er him weep.
_Boston Globe._
REJOICE.
BY JOAQUIN MILLER.
"_Bear me out of the battle, for lo! I am sorely wounded._"
I.
From out my deep, wide-bosomed West, Where unnamed heroes hew the way For worlds to follow, with stern zest,-- Where gnarled old maples make array, Deep-scarred from red men gone to rest,-- Where pipes the quail, where squirrels play Through tossing trees, with nuts for toy,-- A boy steps forth, clear-eyed and tall, A bashful boy, a soulful boy, Yet comely as the sons of Saul,-- A boy, all friendless, poor, unknown, Yet heir-apparent to a throne.
II.
Lo! Freedom's bleeding sacrifice! So like some tall oak tempest-blown Beside the storied stream he lies Now at the last, pale-browed and prone. A nation kneels with streaming eyes, A nation supplicates the throne, A nation holds him by the hand, A nation sobs aloud at this: The only dry eyes in the land Now at the last, I think, are his. Why, we should pray, God knoweth best, That this grand, patient soul should rest.
III.
The world is round. The wheel has run Full circle. Now behold a grave Beneath the old loved trees is done. The druid oaks lift up, and wave A solemn welcome back. The brave Old maples murmur, every one, "Receive him, Earth!" In centre land, As in the centre of each heart, As in the hollow of God's hand, The coffin sinks. And with it part All party hates! Now, not in vain He bore his peril and hard pain.
IV.
Therefore, I say, rejoice! I say, The lesson of his life was much,-- This boy that won, as in a day, The world's heart utterly; a touch Of tenderness and tears; the page Of history grows rich from such; His name the nation's heritage,-- But oh! as some sweet angel's voice Spake this brave death that touched us all, Therefore, I say, Rejoice! rejoice! Run high the flags! Put by the pall! Lo! all is for the best for all!
_Boston Globe._
J. A. G.
HUMANITAS REGNANS.
BY M. J. SAVAGE.
With finger on lip, and breath bated With an eager and sad desire, The world stood hushed, as it waited For the click of the fateful wire,--
"_Better_:" and civilization Breathed freer and hoped again; "_Worse_:" and through every nation Went throbbing a thrill of pain.
A cry at midnight! and listening-- "_Dead!_" tolled out the bells of despair; And millions of eyelids were glistening As sobbed the sad tones on the air.
But who is he toward whom all eyes are turning. And who is he for whom all hearts are yearning?
What is the threat at which earth holds its breath While one lone man a duel fights with death?
No thrones are hanging in suspense; No kingdoms totter to their fall. Peace, with her gentle influence, Is hovering over all.
'Tis just one man at Elberon, Who waiteth day by day, Whose patience all our hearts hath won As ebbs his life away.
His birthday waked no cannon-boom; No purple round him hung; A backwoods cabin gave him room; And storms his welcome sung.
He seized the sceptre of that king Who treads a freehold sod; He wore upon his brow that ring That crowns a son of God.
By his own might he built a throne, With no unhuman arts, And by his manhood reigned alone O'er fifty millions hearts.
Thus is humanity's long dream, Its highest, holiest hope begun To harden into fact, and gleam A city 'neath the sun--
A city, not like that which came In old-time vision from the skies; But wrought by man through blood and flame, From solid earth to rise,--
Man's city; the ideal reign Where every human right hath place; Where blood, nor birth, nor priest again Shall bind the weary race,--
_In which no king but man shall be_. 'Twas this that thrilled with loving pain The heart of all the earth, as he Died by the sobbing main.
For, mightiest ruler of the earth, He was the mightiest, not because Of priestly touch or blood, or birth. But by a people's laws.
* * * * *
O Garfield! brave and patient soul! Long as the tireless tides shall roll About the _Long Branch_ beaches, where Thy life went out upon the air, So long thy land, from sea to sea, Will hold thy manhood's legacy.
There _were_ two parties: there were those, In thine own party, called thy foes; There _was_ a North; there _was_ a South, Ere blazed the assassin's pistol-mouth.
But lo! thy bed became a throne: And as the hours went by, at length The weakness of thine arm alone Grew mightier than thy strongest strength.
No petulant murmur; no vexed cry Of balked ambitions; but a high, Grand patience! And thy whisper blent In one heart all the continent. To-day there are no factions left, But _one America_ bereft.
* * * * *
O Garfield! fortunate in death wast thou, Though at the opening of a grand career! Thou wast a meteor flashing on the brow Of skies political, where oft appear,
And disappear, so many stars of promise. Then, While all men watched thy high course, wondering If them wouldst upward sweep, or fell again, Thee from thine orbit mad hands thought to fling;
And lo! the meteor, with its fitful light, All on a sudden stood, and was a star,-- A radiance fixed, to glorify the night There where the world's proud constellations are.
_Boston Globe._
J. A. G.
BY JULIA WARD HOWE.
Our sorrow sends its shadow round the earth. So brave, so true! A hero from his birth! The plumes of Empire moult, in mourning draped, The lightning's message by our tears is shaped.
Life's vanities that blossom for an hour Heap on his funeral car their fleeting flower. Commerce forsakes her temples, blind and dim, And pours her tardy gold, to homage him.
The notes of grief to age familiar grow Before the sad privations all must know; But the majestic cadence which we hear To-day, is new in either hemisphere.
What crown is this, high hung and hard to reach, Whose glory so outshines our laboring speech? The crown of Honor, pure and unbetrayed; He wins the spurs who bears the knightly aid.
While royal babes incipient empire hold, And, for bare promise, grasp the sceptre's gold, This man such service to his age did bring That they who knew him servant hailed him king.
In poverty his infant couch was spread; His tender hands soon wrought for daily bread; But from the cradle's bound his willing feet The errand of the moment went to meet.
When learning's page unfolded to his view, The quick disciple straight a teacher grew; And, when the fight of freedom stirred the land, Armed was his heart and resolute his hand.
Wise in the council, stalwart in the field! Such rank supreme a workman's hut may yield. His onward steps like measured marbles show, Climbing the height where God's great flame doth glow.
Ah! Rose of joy, that hid'st a thorn so sharp! Ah! Golden woof, that meet'st a severed warp! Ah! Solemn comfort, that the stars rain down! The hero's garland his, the martyr's crown!
NEWPORT, Sept. 25, 1881.
_Boston Globe._
HOME AT LAST.
BY ROSE TERRY COOK.
So long he prayed to come, Lingered so long away; Now, with the muffled beat of drum And solemn dirges, at last he hath come, Come home to stay.
Yes, he has come to stay! The homesick heart is still, The hurried pulse and the aching breast Now in the lap of home shall rest; He has his will.
No more of heat or chill, No frost or evil blight, The work of living a life is done, The long fight over, the victory won, He sleeps to-night.
Silent is home's delight, Peaceful its tranquil cheer; Here is the cool, unbroken calm, The soft wind's breath and the fir-tree's balm, All, all are here.
He and the dying year Lie in their slumber deep. Safe in the heart of home at last, Anxious slumber nor grievous past Shall stir his sleep.
Woe for us to keep, For him a joy to last! Woe for the land in years to come, Wail, O trumpet! and mutter, drum! The dead comes home at last!
WINSTED, CONN.
_The Independent._
AN ODE ON THE ASSASSINATION.
[A prize offered by a London weekly for the best poem on the attempted assassination of President Garfield was awarded to the author of the following.]
Veil now, O Liberty! thy blushing face, At the fell deed that thrills a startled world; While fair Columbia weeps in dire disgrace, And bows in sorrow o'er the banner furled.
No graceless tyrant falls by vengeance here, 'Neath the wild justice of a secret knife; No red Ambition ends its grim career, And expiates its horrors with its life.
Not here does rash Revenge misguided burn, To free a nation with the assassin's dart; Or roused Despair in angry madness turn, And tear its freedom from a despot's heart.
But where blest Liberty so widely reigns, And Peace and Plenty mark a smiling land, Here the mad wretch its fair white record stains, And blurs its beauties with a "bloody hand."
Here the elect of millions, and the pride Of those who own his mild and peaceful rule,-- Here virtue sinks and yields the crimson tide, Beneath the vile unreason of a fool!
FATHERLESS.
BY KATE TANNATT WOODS.
Over the land the tidings sped, "The leader has fallen, our chief is dead." And over the land a cry of pain Began and ended with Garfield's name.
"He is dead," said each, with tearful eye: "So strong, so true, why must he die?" And the children paused that autumn day To talk of the good man passed away.
Over the land when the tidings came, Even the babies lisped his name; And youthful eyes grew sad that day For the fatherless children far away.
Fatherless,--word with a life of pain; Fatherless,--never complete again; Always to miss, and never to know, The joy of his greeting,--his love below.
Missing the cheerful smile each day, Missing his care in studies or play, Missing each hour, each day, each year, The sound of a voice so tender and dear.
Fatherless! only the children can tell The sound of that dreary funeral knell; For only they, in all coming years, Find the roses of youth bedewed with tears.
Over the land from shore to shore, The prayer of the children is echoed o'er,-- "God of the fatherless, help we pray, The wards of our mourning nation to-day."
_Boston Globe._
SALEM, Sept. 24, 1881.