%images; ]> scsm-000022 Lincoln's requiem / words by Irene Boynton ; music by J.A. Butterfield ...: a machine readable transcription. STERN COLLECTION OF LINCOLNIANA, Library of Congress Selected and converted. American Memory, Library of Congress.

Washington, DC, 2006.

Preceding element provides place and date of transcription only.

For more information about this text and this American Memory collection, refer to accompanying matter.

 Rare Book & Special Collections Division, Library of Congress. Public Domain

The National Digital Library Program at the Library of Congress makes digitized historical materials available for education and scholarship.

This transcription is intended to have an accuracy rate of 99.95 percent or greater and is not intended to reproduce the appearance of the original work. The accompanying images provide a facsimile of this work and represent the appearance of the original.

 2008/04/18
0001

Lincoln's Requiem.

Dead! dead! how swift the dire news flies, And wakes a nation's agonies! From town to town, from mouth to mouth, Swift spreads the dreaded message forth; In lowly cot, in lordly hall, This grief enshrouds and covers all. And on the breast droops ev'ry head, In sorrow for the noble dead.

Chorus: Oh, weep for fallen greatness! weep! Let tears express our woes; But while our Lincoln's soul doth sleep, Brave men strike down his foes!

Dead! dead! but not as warriors die, He fell not shouting battle cry Not in the open light of heav'n Not in his home his soul was riven Not on the plain where hand to hand The brave cross blade with foemen's brand, But where the waves of pleasure flow, Death aim'd his shaft thro' secret foe.

Dead! dead! and now when hopes were high, And war's dread curse was passing by, When traitors had their madness stay'd, And hero hands sheathed vengeful blade, When homes and hearthstones gleamd afar, To manly hearts grown tired of war, And long wooed peace had left the sky, It was no time for him to die.

Dead! dead! and when the millions free Sent up their shouts of liberty, When from the depths of bondage wrung, Sweet freedoms song, by freedmen sung; When million hearts their thanks out pour'd And angel ears in pleasure heard, When words his hand has trac'd live on It is not meet to mourn him gone.

Dead! dead! and has he died in vain? Shall we in lethargy remain? His years of patriot toil forget Shall unavenged his life sun set? No! for this blow in treach'ry given, The smoke of strife shall rise to heav'n, And 'till our flag in triumph waves His foes and ours find bloody graves!