And see! the awful Car!

Peace! Let the sad procession go,
While cannon boom, and bells toll slow:
And go, thou sacred Car,
Bearing our Woe afar!

Go, darkly borne, from State to State,
Whose loyal, sorrowing Cities wait
To honor all they can
The dust of that Good Man!

Go, grandly borne, with such a train
As greatest kings might die to gain:
The Just, the Wise, the Brave
Attend thee to the grave!

And you, the soldiers of our wars,
Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars,
Salute him once again,
Your late Commander--slain!

Yes, let your tears, indignant, fall,
But leave your muskets on the wall:
Your Country needs you now
Beside the forge, the plough!

(When Justice shall unsheathe her brand,--
If Mercy may not stay her hand,
Nor would we have it so--