in the purple born,
    Whose wisdom never grew
    To what, untaught, he knew—

The People, of whom he was one.
No gentleman like Washington,—
    (Whose bones, methinks, make room,
    To have him in their tomb!)

A laboring man, with horny hands,
Who swung the axe, who tilled his lands,
    Who shrank from nothing new,
    But did as poor men do!

One of the People! Born to be
Their curious Epitome;
    To share, yet rise above
    Their shifting hate and love.

Common his mind (it seemed so then),
His thoughts the thoughts of other men:
    Plain were his words, and poor—
    But now they will endure!

No hasty fool, of stubborn will,
But prudent, cautious, pliant, still;
    Who, since his work was good,
    Would do it, as he could.

Doubting, was not ashamed to doubt,
And, lacking prescience, went without:
    Often appeared to halt,
    And was, of course, at fault:

Heard all opinions, nothing loth,
And loving both sides, angered both:
    Was—not like Justice, blind,
    But watchful, clement, kind.

No hero, this, of Roman mould;
Nor like our stately sires of old:
    Perhaps he was not Great—
    But he preserved the State!

O honest face, which all men knew!
O tender heart, but known to few!
    O Wonder of the Age,
    Cut off by tragic Rage!

Peace! Let the long procession come,
For hark!—the mournful, muffled drum—
    The trumpet's wail afar,—
    And see! the awful Car!

Peace! Let the sad procession go,
While cannon boom, and bells toll slow:
    And go, thou sacred Car,
    Bearing our Woe afar!

Go, darkly borne, from State to State,
Whose loyal, sorrowing Cities wait
    To honor all they can
    The dust of that Good Man!

Go, grandly borne, with such a train
As greatest kings might die to gain:
    The Just, the Wise, the Brave
    Attend thee to the grave!

And you, the soldiers of our wars,
Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars,
    Salute him once again,
    Your late Commander—slain!

Yes, let your tears, indignant, fall,
But leave your muskets on the wall:
    Your Country needs you now
    Beside the forge, the plough!

(When Justice shall unsheathe her brand,—
If Mercy may not stay her hand,
    Nor would we have it so—
    She must direct the blow!)

And you, amid the Master-Race,
Who seem so strangely out of place,
    Know ye who cometh? He
    Who hath declared ye Free!

Bow while the Body passes—Nay,
Fall on your knees, and weep, and pray!
    Weep, weep—I would ye might—
    Your poor, black faces white!

And, Children, you must come in bands,
With garlands in your little hands,
    Of blue, and white, and red,
    To strew before the Dead!

So, sweetly, sadly, sternly goes
The Fallen to his last repose:
    Beneath no mighty dome,
    But in his modest Home;

The churchyard where his children rest,
The quiet spot that suits him best:
    There shall his grave be made,
    And there his bones be laid!

And there his