O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather'd every wrack, 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 firm 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 where my Captain lies,
Fallen, cold and dead.
[Illustration: STATUE OF LINCOLN
By Lott Flannery, in front of the Court House, Washington Unveiled
April 16, 1868]
Henry de Garrs, of Sheffield, England, wrote these lines on the
assassination of Abraham Lincoln in 1865. They were published in
England in 1889, and later in America, in the _Century_.