Low lies he now who lately stood
Erect,—the Nation's honored head:
The States,—a sorrowing sisterhood,—
Stand with locked shields around his bed.
And, with veiled lids and saddened brow,
Freedom, dear Goddess, bends above
The prostrate form, so powerless now,
With looks of earnest, speechless love:—
While through the hush a prayer goes up,—
The voice of millions blent in one:—
"Remove, O God, the sufferer's cup,
Spare, Father, spare thy stricken son!"