From "Wendell Phillips"

What shall we mourn? For the prostrate tree that sheltered the young green wood? For the fallen cliff that fronted the sea, and guarded the fields from the flood? For the eagle that died in the tempest, afar from its eyrie’s brood? Nay, not for these shall we weep; for the silver cord must be worn, And the golden fillet shrink back at last, and the dust to its earth return; And tears are never for those who die with their face to the duty done; But we mourn for the fledglings left on the waste, and the fields where the wild waves run. From the midst of the flock he defended, the brave one has gone to his rest; And the tears of the poor he befriended their wealth of affliction attest. From the midst of the people is stricken a symbol they daily saw, Set over against the law books, of a Higher than human Law; For his life was a ceaseless protest, and his voice was a prophet’s cry To be true to the Truth and faithful, though the world were arrayed for the Lie. From the hearing of those who hated, a threatening voice has past; But the lives of those who believe and die are not blown like a leaf on the blast. A sower of infinite seed was he, a woodman that hewed toward the light, Who dared to be traitor to Union when Union was traitor to Right!

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