Cry, new born babe,
Sigh, dying man.

A son of joy, a boy of grace,
His mother's comfort, his father's pride.

His chestnut hair shines gold under the morning sun,
His eyes bright with ease,
A strange intelligence for a boy so young.
His cheeks, flushing pink,
His smile sweet of kind honesty.
A gentlemen's bow to the prince of the world,
Then returns to his laughter in play-
Without much thought.

Men of gray studied him,
This prodigious child,
Young of age loved his company.

. .

A mother so proud returns in the dark,
When the little man was called to die.
Returns for sorrow,
Returns for a broken heart.

The sweet, sweet boy,
Filled with joy and grace,
Lies silently on his chilled bed,
To cold for one so young, so cherished,
So wise, so beautiful, so full of hope.

His hair of gold still dewed with sweat,
His face calm-

Good-by, joy,
Adieu, pride.
The sun dimmed by the tear-filled world,
Buried in the darkness with the one so loved.

Good-by, joy,
Adieu, pride.
Go with the boy,
Who is a son no more.

-For William Wallace Lincoln