University of Virginia Library

What is the cry that comes
O'er the blue main,
Wrathfully, wailingly?—
“Abraham's slain!”
Abraham, the honest, slain!
Can it be true?
Has he been venturing
Where battle-balls flew?
Aiding a circle
To close round the foe,
And urging the soldier
To strike the last blow,
And there, as a soldier would,
Sudden laid low?

Ah! not as soldiers would
Draw the last breath;
Ah! not as citizens
Fain would meet death;
Not on the rutted plain,
Cresting a mound of slain,
Straining his dying ear
Victory's voice to hear,
Pleased if he hears it
Swell faintly afar;
Not in a weeping home,
Waiting till doom would come,
Cheered by Love's presence
And Hope's bright'ning star.
While in the house of glee,
Founding a jubilee,
Smiling and happy he
Loyal eyes fed:
E'en while a grinning clown
Wooed noisy plaudits down,
Sudden a hidden hand
Death's message sped—
Sudden the martyr's crown
Dropped on his head.
What will men say of him?
What dare they say,
But that an honest soul's
Hurried away?

Hearken!—Some after him
Shouting, thus cry—
“Spirit of Abraham,
Where wouldst thou fly?
Wouldst thou to heaven ascend?
Dar'st thou to grace pretend?—
Hitherward, spirit, wend;
Leave not the land,
Till of a nation's blood
Washed is thy hand.
Pass o'er each battle-scene;
Float where the torch has been;
Pause where the widows sigh;
Look in the orphan's eye:
Then of the saints on high
Join the bright band;
Dare 'mong the chosen then,
Spirit, to stand.”
What do men say of him?
Thus they dare say—

“Earth had no tyrant
Like him that's away:
Heartless and gaunt and grim,
Why should we weep for him?

“Was he not loathingly
Friend of the slave?
Was it not grudgingly
Freedom he gave—
Never beholding
Their chains till pressed hard,
Then using their sinews
As sharpers a card?

“What for their scourgings
And groanings cared he?
What on his ribald lips
Meant liberty?
Not a deliverance
From long-suffered ill,
But only permission
To plunder and kill.

“He, when he cried to them,
‘Lo, ye are free!
No longer black cattle
But citizens ye,’
But meant his sweet sayings
And smiles broad and bland
Would ruin and rapine
Spread o'er a fair land.
Weep for him? Weep for a
Tyrant that's gone?
May every tear shed for him
Burn to the bone!”—
Thus of the soul away
Ruined men dare to say.

Wail, lyres, your saddest tones;
Mourn, Afric's sable sons—
That which he did for you
Was not his all.
Had he been spared to you,
More had he dared for you;
Hard has he fared for you,
Mourn for his fall.
Europe, speak well of him,
All the good tell of him,
Letting his short-fallings
With his heart rest.
He in a tangled web
Wove with a knotted thread,
Doing what mortal
Could do for the best.

Abram the Honest's gone,
Struck from the people's throne;
Well may they sigh and moan,
'Bating their glee,
Sounding a note of woe,
E'en while the conquered foe,
Yielding, unwilling, low
Bends the proud knee—
For where hath Columbia
Better than he?