Poem by Edmund Clarence Stedman

Abraham Lincoln

      Assassinated Good Friday, 1865

"Forgive them, for they know not what they do!"
⁠     He said, and so went shriven to his fate,—
Unknowing went, that generous heart and true.
⁠     Even while he spoke the slayer lay in wait,
⁠And when the morning opened Heaven's gate
     There passed the whitest soul a nation knew.
⁠Henceforth all thoughts of pardon are too late;
     They, in whose cause that arm its weapon drew,
⁠Have murdered Mercy. Now alone shall stand
     Blind Justice, with the sword unsheathed she wore.
⁠Hark, from the eastern to the western strand,
     The swelling thunder of the people's roar:
⁠What words they murmur,—Fetter not her hand!
     So let it smite, such deeds shall be no more!

1. Sumter
2. Mater Coronata
3. The Heart of New England
4. Custer
5. W. W.

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