Pardon

Wilkes Booth-April 26, 1865 Pains the sharp sentence the heart in whose wrath it was uttered, Now thou art cold; Vengeance, the headlong, and Justice, with purpose close muttered, Loosen their hold. Death brings atonement; he did that whereof ye accuse him,— Murder accurst; But, from that crisis of crime in which Satan did lose him, Suffered the worst. Harshly the red dawn arose on a deed of his doing, Never to mend; But harsher days he wore out in the bitter pursuing And the wild end. So lift the pale flag of truce, wrap those mysteries round him, In whose avail Madness that moved, and the swift retribution that found him, Falter and fail. So the soft purples that quiet the heavens with mourning, Willing to fall, Lend him one fold, his illustrious victim adorning With wider pall. Back to the cross, where the Saviour uplifted in Dying Bade all souls live, Turns the rest bosom of Nature, his mother, low sighing, Greatest, forgive!