On April 14, 1865 President Abraham Lincoln was assassinated. He died the following day. The photograph below, of the President and his son, Todd, was taken by Matthew Brady.
The link below leads leads to the entire May 6, 1865 edition of Harper's Weekly, the "Journal of Civilization" that reported the story and its' aftermath. The Funeral Ode is an uncredited eulogy that appeared in that edition.
WALT WHITMAN'S EULOGY TO THE FALLEN CAPTAIN
O Captain! My Captain!
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
AN ANONYMOUS FUNERAL ODE.
WHEN raging earthquakes bury towns, Or fierce volcanoes lash
their manes
Of boundless, fiery ruin round
The groaning hills and shrieking plains, he world may
fitting emblems find To speak the horror of its heart,
In cities craped, in banners furled, And all the solemn show
of art.
But when a Human Hand is turned Into a ruthless demon-power,
And smites a nation in its Chief,
Even at his triumph's crowning hour,
What emblems shall Man fitting find, What types sad, grand
enough to show
The horror shaking continents,
And their infinity of woe?
Alas! alas ! we wildly feel
There should be still some outward sign, And so we furl the
shining flag
And darkly cloud the glowing shrine.
How vain ! At last the Nation lifts
Its naked hands to Heaven, and owns
The impotence of every type
Before the awful Throne of Thrones :
Then silent stands and thinks of him
The swerveless Good, the calmly Great : In wonder would the
reason pierce
Of their Beloved's mystic fate.
Was he too dear an Idol here ?
Too merciful for this dread time? Did Heaven now will a
sterner hand, With justice mailed, to guard the clime?
O God of Nations, if we sin
In questioning, forgive, for we
Are by our woe driven on to seek The meaning of Eternity !
Forgive, and bless, and make us feel' That Thou wilt still
love, watch, save all,
Though even the best of rulers die, Though earth should sink
and planets fall !
(Uncredited eulogy for the President. Published in Harper's Weekly May 6, 1865)
