John Hay

Amid ferns and mosses brown,From the little mountain-town,Through the driving rain they bore him,Kearsarge frowning down:

Onward bore him, wrapped from sightUnder palms and blossoms white,—While the grieving hearts of thousandsFollowed through the night

To that grave, love-sanctified,Where, in the full summer-tide,Low they laid him, who had cherishedSympathies world-wide.

Honored grave! Yet Azrael's dartOnly slays the mortal part,And they die not who have writtenOn the human heart.

Sad Roumania, far Peking,East with West, his praise to singWho deemed justice more than power,Hither tribute bring;

And the mother-land who bore—She whom most he labored for—Bows her head in sorrow, knowingHe returns no more.

Fame has crowned her own again,Writing with illumined pen,—Lincoln's friend, who loved and trulyServed his fellow-men.