. The poets' Lincoln : tributes in verse to the martyred President. ewe sought is won;The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all ex-ulting,While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel firm anddaring; 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 ribbond wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; 198 THE POETS LINCOLN Hear, Captain! d
. The poets' Lincoln : tributes in verse to the martyred President. ewe sought is won;The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all ex-ulting,While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel firm anddaring; 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 ribbond wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; 198 THE POETS LINCOLN Hear, Captain! dear Father! This arm beneath your head;It is some dream that on the deck Youve 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 anchord 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 where my Captain lies, Fallen, cold and STATUE OF LINCOLN By Lott Flannery, in front of the Court House, WashingtonUnveiled April 16, 1868 200 THE POETS LINCOLN HENRY DE GARRS, of Sheffield, England, wrotethese lines on the assassination of AbrahamLincoln in 1865. They were published in Eng-land in 1889, and later in America, in the Century. ON THE ASSASSINATION OF LINCOLN WHAT dreadful rumor, hurtling oer the sea,Too monstrous for belief, assails our shore?Men pause and question, Can such foulcrime be?Till lingering doubt may cling to hope no when great Caesar weltered in his gore,Nor since, in time, or circumstance, or place,Hath crime so shook the Worlds great heart World! O World! of all thy records base,Time wears no fouler scar on his time-smitten face. A king of men, inured to hardy toil, Rose truly royal up the steeps of life, Till Europes monarchs seemed to dwarf the while Beneath his greatness—great when traitors rife Pierced d
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