XVI. Addenda.
Reading edition
ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
We had written this portion of our work with feelings of gratitude to the brave men who achieved the glorious victory over the rebellious armies of the South, and looked forward to the time when Abraham Lincoln in triumph could repeat his words, uttered long before the surrender of Lee’s army: “When the rebellion is crushed, my work is done.” That work was done, and four millions of people were rescued from slavery; not alone from the fact of any determined opposition to the institution as it was and existed under the Constitution, but the effect of the rebellion itself.
Freedom under the administration of Abraham Lincoln became a reality, what before was but a name,—a shadow! He had just reached that point: his labor was nearly done, armies had surrendered, and the power of the government fully sustained. The shout of gratitude went up from the four points of our country, North, South, East, and West, and was carried to other nations with a rapidity unequalled in telegraphic or steam history. In the midst of this rejoicing, at a time when every heart throbbed with pleasurable emotions and a nation’s gratitude was about being manifested by brilliant illuminations and rejoicings, the demon of hell sent a fiend forth to destroy the life which had given a new one to our nation.
Our country was an Eden on the morning of the fatal day whose evening shrouded it in the deepest gloom. All nature was joyous, all men happy save those who inaugurated the rebellion and looked upon the downfall of slavery as the end of an institution upon which they sinned and grew rich,—vampire-like living on the blood of their fellow-creatures! Abraham Lincoln stood in the garden, the Eden of our country, the Adam of a new order of things,—a recreated world! The tree of liberty had been planted, its apples had been eaten eighty years before, and the curse of slavery followed. But now the tree was clear of its “Dead Sea fruit,” which had withered its branches; anew it blossomed, anew the rich, ripe fruit of freedom loaded its stems, and hung suspended,—bright jewels on a living tree. It was, is, and ever will be the tree of knowledge to a free and independent people, the golden fruit of all that is good, whose roots were watered by the tears of the grateful, and whose soil was enriched by the blood of those who died in defending it. Abraham Lincoln stood in this garden, the man of the people, as was the first man of God. There came up from the four corners of our land in lightning flashes the congratulations of twenty-five millions of free people. Proudly there he stood; the smile on his face was lighted up by the sunshine of his heart. Then it was that a wretch, whose vocation and associations had totally demoralized him, crept into this Eden, wherein all was joy and happiness,—his vile nature, envying a nation’s return to peace, aimed to destroy it. The name of this serpent was J. Wilkes Booth, the tool of Southern chivalry, the assassin by whose hand Abraham Lincoln fell. The moment that the spirit of this martyr passed from earth to heaven, the chains fell from the limbs of four millions of people, and the doom of slavery was sealed forever! The 14th of April, 1865, may be dated as an era in our country’s history long to be remembered, for Abraham Lincoln died in carrying out his great work of emancipation. He lived to see the last battle fought, lived till the power of the rebellion was broken, and then, having finished the work for which God had sent him, he passed away from this world to that high and glorious realm where the patriot and the good shall live forever.
“For the stars on our banner grown suddenly dim, Let us weep in our sorrow, but weep not for him; Not for him who departing leaves millions in tears, Not for him who has died full of honors and years, Not for him who ascended fame’s ladder so high, From the round at the top he has stepped to the sky: It is blessed to go when so ready to die.”
OUR NATIONAL GRIEF.
The murder of Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States, on the 14th of April, 1865.
WRITTEN BY LAURA L. REES.
The drapery of death enshrouds, In its dark, funereal pall, Each quiet home. Its gloomy shade Reveals the grief of all. A country mourns. The moaning winds Sigh requiems of woe; E’en from the shifting clouds the tears In crystal showers flow. Our Father’s dead! from our sad hearts Goes up one burden’d strain, Till every trait of his great life As monuments remain. We fondly, thro’ the vista dim, Our tearful visions cast, And live in memory o’er again Each history of the past. We watch him in the ship of state, On a treacherous, bloody tide: ’Neath his firm hand the nation’s bark In triumph on shall ride. His eagle eye, through shadows dark, Still saw the beacon light; His heart, unwavering, placed its trust In God and freedom’s right. Now came the promised shore in view, Now dawned the glorious day; The darksome river brighter grew, Reflecting victory’s ray Rebellion falls—a bleeding form— Upon the crimson deck; While Slavery sinks beneath the stream, A black, dismantled wreck. A peaceful rainbow bends its hues Across the mighty strand; It faded soon:—a ruler loved Fell ’neath a traitor’s hand. Mid festive scenes the assassin comes To act the dastard deed: The nation’s heart was wounded When she saw the patriot bleed. The stripes that deck Columbia’s flag Grew pallid at the sight; The brilliant galaxy of stars Flashed with a vivid light. The unseen spirit of our land Seem’d living in her wrath, And threw the starry banner’s folds Across the murderer’s path. But from her clasp the assassin fled, Like all the rebel horde, Who spurn our colors with their heel, And grasp the traitor’s sword. Centuries ago, that day, A saddening act was done, That rocked the earth in horror And dimmed the radiant sun. The Anointed One was crucified, Mid agony and shame. “Father, forgive them!” still he prayed, Whilst they reviled his name. Towards the mount of Calvary The heavy cross was borne By one of Afric’s sons, a race Now abject and forlorn. The cruel yoke was on their life, Its curse upon their head, Till another raised its ponderous weight: For it his blood was shed. Upon Good Friday’s holy eve The stalwart Roman band Removed the cross, lest its dread form Pollute the Jewish land. Upon Good Friday’s holy eve Columbia’s noblest son Laid down the weighty cross he bore: The martyr crown was won. When in the capital to him A monument shall rise, The record of a nation’s love, The tribute of her sighs, We’ll vow that traitorous deeds no more Shall desecrate our fame; No more the blot of slavery Shall stain Columbia’s name.
Philadelphia, April 19, 1865.