The Nation Mourns


Published by Chas. Magnus, 12 Frankfort, St., N. Y.

The Nation Mourns.

Hark! their sad and solemn notes attend,
Abraham Lincoln to his last way’s end.

Dead silence, mutely hovers
Above grave’s dreary strand,
With sable pall it covers
The Leader of Our Land.

Despairing men are wringing
In vain their hands here wound,
The Orphan’s wail is winning
No solace from its ground.

The nightingales’ caroling
Sounds never in its womb;
True Patriots tears are rolling
But on the mossy tomb.

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