With all the mournful voices of the dirges pour'd

around the coffin,

The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs— where amid these you journey,

With the tolling, tolling bells' perpetual clang,
Here, coffin that slowly passes,

I give you my sprig of lilac.

*

*

*

*

*

O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there

I loved?

And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?

And what shall my perfume be for the grave of him I love?

Sea-winds blown from east and west,

Blown from the Eastern sea and blown from the Western sea, till there on the prairies meeting, These and with these and the breath of my chant I'll perfume the grave of him I love.

Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird, With pure deliberate notes spreading filling the night.

Loud in the pines and cedars dim,

Clear in the freshness moist and the swamp perfume,

And I with my comrades there in the night.

While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclos'd, As to long panoramas of visions.

And I saw askant the armies,

I saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of battleflags,

Borne through the smoke of the battles and pierc'd with missiles I saw them,

And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody,

And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs, (and all in silence,)

And the staffs all splinter'd and broken.

I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them,

And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them, I saw the debris and debris of all the slain soldiers of the war,

But I saw they were not as was thought,

They themselves were fully at rest, they suffer'd not, The living remain'd and suffer'd, the mother suffer'd, And the wife and the child and the musing comrade suffer'd,

And the armies that remained suffer'd.

Passing the visions, passing the night,

Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades' hands, Passing the song of the hermit bird and the tallying song of my soul,

Victorious song, death's outlet song, yet varying ever-altering song,

As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night,

Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy,

Covering the earth and filling the spread of the heaven,

As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from

recesses,

Passing, I leave thee lilac with heart-shap'd leaves, I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring.

I cease from my song for thee,

From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee,

O comrade lustrous with silver face in the night.

Yet each to keep and all, retrievements out of the

night,

The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird,

And the tallying-chant, the echo arous'd in my soul, With the lustrous and drooping star with the countenance full of woe,

With the holders holding my hand nearing the call of the bird,

Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to keep, for the dead I loved so well, For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands-and this for his dear sake,

Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul,

There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim.

WALT WHITMAN.

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN !

[Abraham Lincoln, died April 15, 1865.]

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done; The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead!

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up for you the flag is flung-for you the bugle trills;

For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths for you the shores a-crowding;

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head;

It is some dream that on the deck
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will:

The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won:

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!

But I, with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

WALT WHITMAN.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

[Summer, 1865.]

DEAD is the roll of the drums,
And the distant thunders die,
They fade in the far-off sky;
And a lovely summer comes,
Like the smile of Him on high.

Lulled the storm and the onset ;
Earth lies in a sunny swoon;
Stiller splendor of noon,

Softer glory of sunset,

Milder starlight and moon!

For the kindly Seasons love us;

They smile over trench and clod, (Where we left the bravest of us,)— There's a brighter green of the sod, And a holier calm above us

In the blessed Blue of God.

The roar and ravage were vain ;
And Nature, that never yields,
Is busy with sun and rain
At her old sweet work again
On the lonely battle-fields.

How the tall white daisies grow
Where the grim artillery rolled!
(Was it only a moon ago?

It seems a century old,)—

And the bee hums in the clover,
As the pleasant June comes on;
Aye, the wars are all over,-

But our good Father is gone.

There was tumbling of traitor fort, Flaming of traitor fleet,Lighting of city and port,

Clasping in square and street.

There was thunder of mine and gun,
Cheering by mast and tent,—
When his dread work all done,
And his high fame full won-
Died the good President.

In his quiet chair he sate,
Pure of malice or guile,
Stainless of fear or hate,-

And there played a pleasant smile
On the rough and careworn face;
For his heart was all the while
On means of mercy and grace.