Above Judea's purple-mantled plain,
There hovers still, among the ruins lone,
The spirit of the Christ whose dying moan
Was heard in heaven, and paid our debt in pain.

As subtle perfume lingers with the rose,
Even when its petals flutter to the earth,
So clings the potent mystery of the birth
Of that deep love from which all mercy flows.

. . . . .

Within this house,--this room,--a martyr died,
A prophet of a larger liberty,--
A liberator setting bondmen free,
A full-orbed MAN, above mere mortal pride.

The cloud-rifts opening to celestial glades,
Oft glimpse him, and his spirit lingers still,
As Christ's sweet influence broods upon the hill
Where the red lily with the sunset fades.

. . . . .

A little girl with eyes of heavenly blue,
Sings through the old place, ignorant of all;
Her angel face, her cheerful, birdlike call
Thrilling the heart to life more full, more true.

IN TOKEN OF RESPECT

_Translation from Latin verses_

From humble parentage and low degree
Lincoln ascended to the highest rank;
None ever had a harder task than he,
It was perfected--him alone we thank.

Did the assassin think to kill a name,
Or hand his own down to posterity?
One will wear the laurel wreath of fame,
The other be condemned to infamy.

Caesar was killed by Brutus,
Yet Rome did not cease to be;
Lincoln by Booth, and yet the slaves
In all America are free!

Rieti, France, May, 1865

ENGLAND'S SORROW

_From London Fun_

The hand of an Assassin, glowing red,
Shot like a firebrand through the western sky;
And stalwart Abraham Lincoln now is dead!
O! felon heart that thus could basely dye
The name of southerner with murderous gore!
Could such a spirit come from mortal wom