WILLIAM McKINLEY

He said: “It is God's way:

His will, not ours be done.”

And o'er our land a shadow lay

That darkened all the sun.

The voice of jubilee

That gladdened all the air,

Fell sudden to a quavering key

Of suppliance and prayer.

He was our chief — our guide —

Sprung of our common Earth,

From youth's long struggle proved and tried

To manhood's highest worth:

Through toil, he knew all needs

Of all his toiling kind —

The favored striver who succeeds —

The one who falls behind.

The boy's young faith he still

Retained through years mature —

The faith to labor, hand and will,

Nor doubt the harvest sure —

The harvest of man's love —

A nation's joy that swells

To heights of Song, or deeps whereof

But sacred silence tells.

To him his Country seemed

Even as a Mother, where

He rested — slept; and once he dreamed —

As on her bosom there —

And thrilled to hear, within

That dream of her, the call

Of bugles and the clang and din

Of war.... And o'er it all

His rapt eyes caught the bright

Old Banner, winging wild

And beck'ning him, as to the fight...

When — even as a child —

He wakened — And the dream

Was real! And he leapt

As led the proud Flag through a gleam

Of tears the Mother wept.

His was a tender hand —

Even as a woman's is —

And yet as fixed, in Right's command,

As this bronze hand of his:

This was the Soldier brave —

This was the Victor fair —

This is the Hero Heaven gave

To glory here — and There.