John Hay

Onward bore him, wrapped from sight Under palms and blossoms white,— While the grieving hearts of thousands Followed through the night

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

Honored grave! Yet Azrael's dart Only slays the mortal part, And they die not who have written On the human heart.

Sad Roumania, far Peking, East with West, his praise to sing Who 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, knowing He returns no more.

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