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Poem	Oh, slow to smit and swift to spare, Gentle and merciful and just! Who, in the fear of God, didst bear The sword of power, a nation's trust! In sorrow by thy bier we stand, Amid the awe that hushes all, And speak the anguish of a land That shook with horror at thy fall. Thy task is done; the bond of free; We bear thee to an honored grave, Whose proudest monument shall be The broken fetters of the slave. Pure was thy life; its bloddy close Hath placed thee with the sons of light, Among the noble host of those Who perished in the cause of Right.
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