Oliver Wendell Holmes

(1809-1894 / United States)

On The Death Of President Garfield - Poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes

I.

FALLEN with autumn's falling leaf
Ere yet his summer's noon was past,
Our friend, our guide, our trusted chief,--
What words can match a woe so vast!

And whose the chartered claim to speak
The sacred grief where all have part,
Where sorrow saddens every cheek
And broods in every aching heart?

Yet Nature prompts the burning phrase
That thrills the hushed and shrouded hall,
The loud lament, the sorrowing praise,
The silent tear that love lets fall.

In loftiest verse, in lowliest rhyme,
Shall strive unblamed the minstrel choir,---
The singers of the new-born time,
And trembling age with outworn lyre.

No room for pride, no place for blame,--
We fling our blossoms on the grave,
Pale,--scentless,--faded,--all we claim,
This only,--what we had we gave.

Ah, could the grief of all who mourn
Blend in one voice its bitter cry,
The wail to heaven's high arches borne
Would echo through the caverned sky.


II.

O happiest land, whose peaceful choice
Fills with a breath its empty throne!
God, speaking through thy people's voice,
Has made that voice for once His own.

No angry passion shakes the state
Whose weary servant seeks for rest;
And who could fear that scowling hate
Would strike at that unguarded breast?

He stands, unconscious of his doom,
In manly strength, erect, serene;
Around him Summer spreads her bloom;
He falls,--what horror clothes the scene!

How swift the sudden flash of woe
Where all was bright as childhood's dream!
As if from heaven's ethereal bow
Had leaped the lightning's arrowy gleam.

Blot the foul deed from history's page;
Let not the all-betraying sun
Blush for the day that stains an age
When murder's blackest wreath was won.


III.

Pale on his couch the sufferer lies,
The weary battle-ground of pain
Love tends his pillow; Science tries
Her every art, alas! in vain.

The strife endures how long! how long!
Life, death, seem balanced in the scale,
While round his bed a viewless throng
Await each morrow's changing tale.

In realms the desert ocean parts
What myriads watch with tear-filled eyes,
His pulse-beats echoing in their hearts,
His breathings counted with their sighs!

Slowly the stores of life are spent,
Yet hope still battles with despair;
Will Heaven not yield when knees are bent?
Answer, O thou that hearest prayer.

But silent is the brazen sky;
On sweeps the meteor's threatening train,
Unswerving Nature's mute reply,
Bound in her adamantine chain.

Not ours the verdict to decide
Whom death shall claim or skill shall save;
The hero's life though Heaven denied,
It gave our land a martyr's grave.

Nor count the teaching vainly sent
How human hearts their griefs may share,--
The lesson woman's love has lent,
What hope may do, what faith can bear!

Farewell! the leaf-strown earth enfolds
Our stay, our pride, our hopes, our fears,
And autumn's golden sun beholds
A nation bowed, a world in tears.


Comments about On The Death Of President Garfield by Oliver Wendell Holmes

  • (7/27/2015 7:10:00 PM)

    such a pure load of rubbish. Cannot tell the difference between rubbish and this poem. (Report)Reply

    1 person liked.
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  • Edward Kofi Louis (7/27/2015 6:48:00 AM)

    A martyr's grave. With the muse of death in life. Nice piece. (Report)Reply

    (7/27/2015 7:08:00 PM)

    How do i get to level six? :)

    1 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • Francis Lynch (7/27/2015 6:22:00 AM)

    Tribute poetry at its worst. (Report)Reply

    0 person liked.
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  • (7/27/2015 4:57:00 AM)

    Not very good. Rambles on hyperbolically. (Report)Reply

    1 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • Ramesh T A (7/27/2015 3:25:00 AM)

    A rich tribute to a great president it is indeed...! (Report)Reply

    2 person liked.
    2 person did not like.
Read all 6 comments »



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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, April 6, 2010



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