The Martyr. 
Indicative of the passion of the people on the 15th of
April, 1865.

Good Friday was the day
  Of the prodigy and crime,
When they killed him in his pity,
  When they killed him in his prime
Of clemency and calm—­
    When with yearning he was filled
    To redeem the evil-willed,
And, though conqueror, be kind;
  But they killed him in his kindness,
  In their madness and their blindness,
And they killed him from behind.

There is sobbing of the strong,
And a pall upon the land;
But the People in their weeping
Bare the iron hand: 
Beware the People weeping
When they bare the iron hand.

He lieth in his blood—­
  The father in his face;
They have killed him, the Forgiver—­
  The Avenger takes his place, [15]
The Avenger wisely stern,
    Who in righteousness shall do
    What the heavens call him to,
And the parricides remand;
  For they killed him in his kindness,
  In their madness and their blindness,
And his blood is on their hand.

There is sobbing of the strong,
And a pall upon the land;
But the People in their weeping
Bare the iron hand: 
Beware the People weeping
When they bare the iron hand.

“The Coming Storm:” 
A Picture by S.R.  Gifford, and owned by E.B. 
Included in the N.A.  Exhibition, April, 1865.

All feeling hearts must feel for him
  Who felt this picture.  Presage dim—­
Dim inklings from the shadowy sphere
  Fixed him and fascinated here.

A demon-cloud like the mountain one
  Burst on a spirit as mild
As this urned lake, the home of shades. 
  But Shakspeare’s pensive child

Never the lines had lightly scanned,
  Steeped in fable, steeped in fate;
The Hamlet in his heart was ’ware,
  Such hearts can antedate.

No utter surprise can come to him
  Who reaches Shakspeare’s core;
That which we seek and shun is there—­
    Man’s final lore.

Rebel Color-bearers at Shiloh:[16] A plea against the vindictive cry raised by civilians shortly after the surrender at Appomattox.

The color-bearers facing death
White in the whirling sulphurous wreath,
  Stand boldly out before the line
Right and left their glances go,
Proud of each other, glorying in their show;
Their battle-flags about them blow,
  And fold them as in flame divine: 
Such living robes are only seen
Round martyrs burning on the green—­
And martyrs for the Wrong have been.

Perish their Cause! but mark the men—­
Mark the planted statues, then
Draw trigger on them if you can.

The leader of a patriot-band
Even so could view rebels who so could stand;
  And this when peril pressed him sore,
Left aidless in the shivered front of war—­
  Skulkers behind, defiant foes before,
And fighting with a broken brand. 
The challenge in that courage rare—­
Courage defenseless, proudly bare—­
Never could tempt him; he could dare
Strike up the leveled rifle there.