Chapter I: Preface (1)

It is especially fitting to issue this book--in fact, any book on the life and work of Abraham Lincoln--at this time, just preceding the centennial of his birth. Insignificant as the little volume may seem, it will have earned its right to publication if it bring, in whatever small measure, before the growing mind of the country a better realization of the grand life of the noble Lincoln--the loved and martyred President--inspired by God and divinely prepared for a great purpose: to guard and preserve a free and united country.

One hundred years seem but a day! One thousand years hence a deeper feeling will be felt for everything concerning Lincoln, as with each passing year he grows in the affections of the people. His body is dead, but his memory will live in the hearts of the people as long as our country shall cherish freedom and liberty. He was a born king of men, with an intense and yearning love for his fellows and their welfare, which knew neither rank, race, nor creed, but gathered within its boundless charity all mankind.

What a shining example this simple but sublime life offers to our growing youth! Born of humble parents, surrounded by poverty and hardships such as we seldom encounter today, his rise to the highest position in the gift of the American people--which position he not only ably filled but highly honored--is a grand illustration of persistence and ambition; ambition, though, tempered with foresight and wisdom. His was an exemplary character: a character which for quaint simplicity, earnestness, kindness, truthfulness and purity has never been surpassed among the historic personages of the world. His figure, too, more than any other in the history of our country, illustrates that America is the land of opportunity. In short, to us he is the representative and typical American.

He missed the polish that higher education affords, polish though he needed not. What would not this country, with all its bright and polished men, give today for another man of rugged education, rugged honesty and rugged foresight and wisdom as was Abraham Lincoln? It is hard to measure the usefulness of the life of such a man, yet more hard to do his memory justice. Great qualities of heart and head did he possess, of patience, patriotism, and piety, too. He occupies a unique place in our nation's history. Though most of us never saw him, yet we feel daily the influence of his just and kindly life bound up in the two titles given him by his neighbors and those who knew him well: "Honest Old Abe" and "Father Abraham."

The matter in this book, the only one of its kind published, is intended not only for the entertainment of children but for their instruction also. The contents for the most part is new, much of it having been written especially for the book by Marie Irish, Clara J. Denton, and Laura R. Smith, and some gathered from various sources and adapted by the compiler. It is arranged as nearly as possible under the various headings in degree of difficulty, primary material being placed first.

Grateful acknowledgments are rendered to all magazines, periodicals and books from whose pages selections have been gleaned and without which the book could not have been complete. Proper credit has been given wherever such matter appears. A few selections have been used of which the names of author or publisher are unknown. For these it has been impossible to give proper credit. In cases where unintentional infringements have been made, sincere apologies are tendered.

J. C. S.

CONTENTS

READINGS, RECITATIONS, QUOTATIONS

PAGE

Abraham Lincoln _Joel Benton_ 29
Abraham Lincoln _Susie M. Best_ 16
Abraham Lincoln _William Cullen Bryant_ 24
Abraham Lincoln _Alice Cary_ 24
Abraham Lincoln _James Russell Lowell_ 30
Abraham Lincoln _R. H. Stoddard_ 23
Abraham Lincoln _Tom Taylor_ 35
At Richmond _Clara J. Denton_ 18
Best Tribute, The _Sidney Dayre_ 15
Blue and the Gray, The _Francis Miles Finch_ 39
Death of Lincoln, The _Charles G. Halpin_ 27
Flag Goes By, The _Henry Holcomb Bennett_ 20
Grandson of the Veteran, The _Arthur E. Parke_ 12
Jonathan to John _James Russell Lowell_ 43
Let Us Be Like Him _Lydia Avery Coonley_ 14
Like Lincoln _Clara J. Denton_ 10
Lincoln 11
Lincoln 19
Lincoln _Henry Tyrrell_ 38
Lincoln: A Man Called of God _John Mellen Thurston_ 41
Lincoln and the Nestlings _Clara J. Denton_ 14
Lincoln, the Man of the People _Edwin Markham_ 34
No Slave Beneath the Flag _George Lansing Taylor_ 47
O Captain! My Captain! _Walt Whitman_ 28
Old Flag _Hubbard Parker_ 22
On the Life-Mask of Abraham Lincoln _Richard Watson Gilder_ 29
Our Abraham 32
Our Lincoln 10
Quotations from Lincoln 54
Some Heroes 9
Story of Lincoln, The _C. C. Hassler_ 21
'Tis Splendid to Live So Grandly _Margaret E. Sangster_ 17
Tributes to Lincoln 48
Was Lincoln King? _Ella M. Bangs_ 13
Your Flag and My Flag _Wilbur D. Nesbit_ 26

PLAYS, DIALOGUES, EXERCISES

Captain Lincoln. 5 boys _Clara J. Denton_ 82
Flag Exercise, A. 8 girls and boys _L. F. Armitage_ 68
Prophecy, The. 1 girl, 2 boys _Clara J. Denton_ 77
Savior of Our Flag and Country, The. Whole school
_Laura R. Smith_ 57
With Fife and Drum. 4 girls, 3 boys _Clara J. Denton_ 88
Wooden Fire-Shovel, The. 3 girls, 2 boys _Clara J. Denton_ 70
Suggestive Program 102

DRILLS--By Marie Irish

Civil War Daughters. 12 girls 110
Blue and the Gray on the Rappahannock, The.
20 to 40 children 117
Old Glory. 5 girls, 5 boys 103
Star-Spangled Banner, The. 11 children 106

PANTOMIMES--By Marie Irish

America 125
Auld Lang Syne 129
Blue and the Gray, The 128
Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean 131
Home, Sweet Home 132
Star-Spangled Banner, The 123
Swanee Ribber 126

TABLEAUX--By Marie Irish.

Liberty 134
March of Civilization, The 133
Peace 134
Scenes from the Life of Lincoln 135
The Student, The Laborer, The Emancipator,
The Pardoner, The Martyr.
Soldier's Farewell, The 133
When I'm a Man 132

SONGS

Day We Celebrate, The _Clara J. Denton_ 138
His Name _Clara J. Denton_ 140
Lincoln Dear _Laura R. Smith and Clarence L. Riege_ 143
Lincoln's Birthday _Laura R. Smith,
F. F. Churchill and Mrs. Clara Grindell_ 144
Lincoln Song _Clara J. Denton_ 139
Name We Sing, The _Clara J. Denton_ 139
Song of Rejoicing, A _Clara J. Denton_ 141
Sunny Southland, The _Laura R. Smith and Clarence L. Riege_ 146
When Lincoln Was a Little Boy _Clara J. Denton_ 137

STORIES AND FACTS

Events in the Life of Abraham Lincoln 158
Gettysburg Address, The 157
Granting a Pardon 149
How They Sang "The Star-Spangled Banner"
When Lincoln Was Inaugurated _Thomas Nast_ 152
Lincoln's Autobiography 150
Lincoln's Favorite Poem 154
Lincoln's Tenderness 148
Why Dummy Clocks Mark 8:18 148

LINCOLN DAY

ENTERTAINMENTS

READINGS, RECITATIONS, QUOTATIONS

SOME HEROES

This recitation is intended to be rendered by two little boys. One holds a book and shows the pictures while the other recites.

Now look, and some pictures of heroes I'll show,
A hero is always a brave man, you know.

Here on this first page is Washington grand,
He fought for our liberty, our free, honored land.

And next we see our loved Lincoln so brave,
You know he gave freedom to each poor old slave.

And here's General Grant! Think what battles he won!
He fought that all States be united as one.

You see all these heroes are both good and great,
And each gave his life for his country and state.

The last is a hero,--now think who 'twill be!
He, too, will be great; now look and see,--Me.

OUR LINCOLN

Our Lincoln, when he was a boy,
Was very tall and slim.
You see I'm just a little tall;
I wonder if I look like him.

Our Lincoln, when he was a boy,
Was very brave and very true.
Today I'm just a little brave;
In this I'm like our Lincoln, too.

Our Lincoln, when he was a man,
Was loved and honored everywhere.
I'll be the man that Lincoln was,
To do this I must now prepare.

LIKE LINCOLN

Clara J. Denton

When I'm a man, a great big man,
Like dear old Abe I'll be.
I mean to follow every plan
To make me good as he.

I'll study well, and tell the truth.
And all my teachers mind;
And I will be to every one,
Like him, so true and kind.

I'll try to live in peace, because
"Quarrels don't pay," said he;
And any rule of "Honest Abe's"
Is good enough for me.

I'll make the best of everything,
And never scold or whine;
That was his way when trouble came,
And so it shall be mine.

I'll be a temperance man, like him.
They say--what do you think!--
He gave some great men at his house,
Just water cold to drink!

He did not muddle up his brains
With any sort of stuff.
And so, I think his way--don't you?
Is plenty good enough.

I may not be a President
If thus my life I plan.
But I'll be something better still:
A good and honest man.

LINCOLN[A]

Only a baby, fair and small,
Like many another baby son,
Whose smiles and tears came swift at call,
Who ate, and slept, and grew, that's all,--
The infant Abe Lincoln.

Only a boy like other boys,
With many a task, but little fun,
Fond of his books, though few he had,
By his good mother's death made sad,--
The little Abe Lincoln.

Only a lad, awkward and shy,
Skilled in handling an ax or gun,
Mastering knowledge that, by and by,
Should aid him in duties great and high,--
The youthful Abe Lincoln.

Only a man of finest bent,
A splendid man: a Nation's son,
Rail-splitter, Lawyer, President,
Who served his country and died content,--
The patriot, Abe Lincoln.

Only--ah! what was the secret, then,
Of his being America's honored son?
Why was he famed above other men,
His name upon every tongue and pen,--
The illustrious Abe Lincoln?

A mighty brain, a will to endure,
Kind to all, though a slave to none,
A heart that was brave, and strong, and sure,
A soul that was noble, and great, and pure,
A faith in God that was held secure,--
This was Abraham Lincoln.

[A] With apologies to the unknown writer of the pretty poem Washington, of which this is an adaptation.--Editor.

THE GRANDSON OF THE VETERAN

Arthur E. Parke

I've got the finest grandpapa
That ever lived, I b'lieve;
He used to be a soldier boy--
He's got one empty sleeve.

He tells the grandest tales to me,
Of battles that he fought;
Of how he marched, and how he charged,
And how that he got shot.

My papa was a soldier, too;
No battles was he in,
And when I ask him, "Why?", he laughs
And "guesses" he "was tin."

I've tried to understand their talk,
And b'lieve I have it right:
My grandpa licked so many, there
Were none for pa to fight.

--_Youth's Companion._

WAS LINCOLN KING?

Ella M. Bangs

We talked of kings, little Ned and I,
As we sat in the firelight's glow;
Of Alfred the Great, in days gone by,
And his kingdom of long ago.

Of Norman William, who, brave and stern,
His armies to victory led.
Then, after a pause, "At school we learn
Of another great man," said Ned.

"And this one was good to the oppressed,
He was gentle and brave, and so
Wasn't he greater than all the rest?
'Twas Abraham Lincoln, you know."

"Was Lincoln a king?" I asked him then,
And in waiting for his reply
A long procession of noble men
Seemed to pass in the firelight by.

When "No" came slowly from little Ned,
And thoughtfully; then, with a start,
"He wasn't a king--_outside_," he said,
"But I think he was in his heart."

LET US BE LIKE HIM[B]

Lydia Avery Coonley

When we think of Abraham Lincoln
Then the angel voices call,
Saying: Try to be just like him!
Be as noble, one and all.

Be as truthful, as unselfish;
Be as pure, as good, as kind;
Be as honest; never flatter;
Give to God your heart and mind.

Seek not praise, but do your duty,
Love the right and work for it;
Then the world will be the better
Because you have lived in it.

[B] From Lincoln and Washington, by Marian M. George and Lydia Avery Coonley. Copyrighted and published by A. Flanagan Company. Price, twenty-five cents.

LINCOLN AND THE NESTLINGS

Clara J. Denton

I've heard the beautiful stories
Of Lincoln so great and so good.
He helped all people in trouble,
And their grief so well understood;
To many sad tales he listened,
Of heart-broken mothers and wives;
And pausing 'mid all his worries,
Once more he brought hope to their lives.

Dearer than all other stories,
Is this little one of the day
When he, with his friends, was riding
On horseback along the roadway;
There, in the dust, by a tree, he found
One little bird, then another,
From their nest the wind had blown them,
And he was hunting for their mother.

When at last he found the nest, and
In it the birdies laid,
'Mid the party's merry laughter
His heart was glad, his manner grave:
"Seems to me," he said, "I couldn't
Tonight in bed with ease have slept
Had I left those creatures suffer
And not restored them to their nest."

Wonderful heart; ever tender--
Tender, yet _just_, with the rest.
I think among all the stories,
This shows his true nature the best.

THE BEST TRIBUTE

Sidney Dayre

My Grandpa was a soldier. They tell about the day
He said his very last good-by and bravely marched away,
With flying flags and bayonets all gleaming in the sun.
They never saw him march back when all the war was done.

They brought him here and laid him where I can always bring
The very brightest flowers that blossom in the spring;
But sweeter far than flowers, as every one can tell,
Is the memory of the soldiers who loved their country well.

I wish I could be like him--to try with all my might
And do my loyal service for honor and for right
And victory and glory! But children now, you know,
Have never any chance at all to war against a foe.

And as I think upon it, the best that we can do
To show our love and honor for a hero brave and true,
Is to resolve together always to be brave,
To live our very noblest in the land he died to save.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

Susie M. Best

'Mid the names that fate has written
On the deathless scroll of fame,
We behold the name of Lincoln,
Shining like a living flame.

'Mid the deeds the world remembers,
(Deeds by dauntless heroes done),
We behold the deeds of Lincoln,
Blazing like a brilliant sun.

'Mid the lives whose light illumines
History's dark and dreadful page,
We behold the life of Lincoln,
Lighting up an awful age.

When the storm of peril threatened
His loved land to overwhelm,
Safe the ship of state he guided,
With his hand upon the helm.

Statesman, ruler, hero, martyr--
Fitting names for him, I say,
Wherefore, let us all as brothers,
Love his memory today.

'TIS SPLENDID TO LIVE SO GRANDLY[C]

Margaret E. Sangster

'Tis splendid to live so grandly
That, long after you are gone,
The things you did are remembered,
And recounted under the sun;
To live so bravely and purely
That a nation stops on its way,
And once a year, with banner and drum,
Keeps the thoughts of your natal day.

'Tis splendid to have a record,
So white and free from stain,
That, held to the light, it shows no blot,
Though tested and tried again;
That age to age forever
Repeats its story of love,
And your birthday lives in a nation's heart
All other days above.

And this is our Lincoln's glory,
A steadfast soul and true,
Who stood for his country's union,
When his country called him to.
And now that we once more are one,
And our flag of stars is flung
To the breeze in defiant challenge,
His name is on every tongue.

Yes, it's splendid to live so bravely,
To be so great and strong,
That your memory is ever a tocsin
To rally the foes of the wrong;
To live so proudly and purely
That your people pause in their way,
And year by year, with banner and drum,
Keep the thoughts of your natal day.

[C] Adapted by the editor from the author's excellent tribute to Washington. The poem is equally true to the character and work of Lincoln as well as the love for him.

AT RICHMOND

Clara J. Denton

We have read the stories glowing,
Found in annals of old,
Of mighty conquerers marching,
With cohorts strong and bold:

We see the proud monarch, riding
In grand and lofty state,
We hear the clamor, extolling
His skill and prowess great.

But, grander by far the vision
Modern annals unclose:
Through the burning streets of Richmond
Walks Lincoln 'mong his foes.

Though no pride of state surrounds him,
On every side we hear:
"Foh Marsa Linkum, bress de Lawd."
"De Sabiour now am near."

"O, honey chile, jes' tech him once!"
"Suah heben is 'mos' nigh."
"I's on de mount, O, Gawd, I is."
"Dis niggah now kin die."

O, the poor untutored negroes!
And yet I am sure, to him
Before those cries of joy and love
Earth's brightest gauds grew dim.

And, I think, his heart that morning
A throb exultant gave;
For never more his countrymen
Could know the name of slave!

LINCOLN

From out the strong young west he came
In those warlike days of yore,
When Freedom's cry had reached the sky
And rung from shore to shore.

He knew the world was watching him,
He heard the words of scorn,
He felt the weight of a severed State
By cruel rebellion torn.

But calling on Jehovah,
He seized his mighty pen
And with a stroke, the chains he broke
From a million bonded men.

He was a dauntless leader
As among the host he moved,
And he gave his life in the time of strife
To save the cause he loved.

THE FLAG GOES BY

Henry Holcomb Bennett

Hats off!
Along the street there comes
A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums,
A flash of color beneath the sky;
Hats off!
The flag is passing by!

Blue and crimson and white it shines,
Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines.
Hats off!
The colors before us fly;
But more than the flag is passing by:

Sea fights and land fights, grim and great,
Fought to make and save the State;
Weary marches and sinking ships;
Cheers of victory on dying lips;

Days of plenty and years of peace;
March of a strong land's swift increase;
Equal justice, right, and law,
Stately honor and reverend awe;

Sign of a nation, great and strong
To ward her people from foreign wrong;
Pride and glory and honor,--all
Live in the colors to stand or fall.

Hats off!
Along the street there comes
A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums;
And loyal hearts are beating high.
Hats off!
The flag is passing by!

THE STORY OF LINCOLN

C. C. Hassler

Tell to the boys the story of Lincoln,
Tell it to them when early in youth,
Tell of his struggles for knowledge to fit him,
Guide him thro' manhood in honored truth.

Tell them of Lincoln; yes, tell them the story,
None more worthy of honor than he;
None was more proud of our national glory;
None was more true to the flag of the free.

Tell to the boys the story of Lincoln;
Tell of his loyalty, tell of his hate--
Not toward men, but the infamous measures
False to the nation, the home and the state.

Tell them; yes, tell them, his highest ambition
Was of all men in the nation to stand
Close to the hearts of the people who loved him--
Loved him and chose him to rule in the land.

Tell to the boys the sad story of Lincoln;
Tell of his trials when traitors defied
And spurned the old flag; how the nation's defenders
At his call rallied and sprang to his side;

Tell how he suffered when news of the battle
Told of disaster, of wounded and dead;
Tell how his great noble heart was oft gladdened
When as proud victors our armies were led.

Tell them; yes, tell them the story and point them
Up to a standard he would applaud;
Loyal in life to the state and the nation,
True to one country, one flag and one God.

OLD FLAG

Hubbard Parker

What shall I say to you, Old Flag?
You are so grand in every fold,
So linked with mighty deeds of old,
So steeped in blood where heroes fell,
So torn and pierced by shot and shell,
So calm, so still, so firm, so true,
My throat swells at the sight of you,
Old Flag.

What of the men who lifted you, Old Flag,
Upon the top of Bunker Hill,
Who crushed the Britons' cruel will,
'Mid shock and roar and crash and scream,
Who crossed the Delaware's frozen stream,
Who starved, who fought, who bled, who died,
That you might float in glorious pride,
Old Flag?

What of the women brave and true, Old Flag,
Who, while the cannon thundered wild,
Sent forth a husband, lover, child,
Who labored in the field by day,
Who, all the night long, knelt to pray,
And thought that God great mercy gave,
If only freely you might wave,
Old Flag?

What is your mission now, Old Flag?
What but to set all people free,
To rid the world of misery,
To guard the right, avenge the wrong,
And gather in one joyful throng
Beneath your folds in close embrace
All burdened ones of every race,
Old Flag.

Right nobly do you lead the way, Old Flag.
Your stars shine out for liberty,
Your white stripes stand for purity,
Your crimson claims that courage high
For honor's sake to fight and die.
Lead on against the alien shore!
We'll follow you, e'en to Death's door,
Old Flag!

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

R. H. Stoddard

This man whose homely face you look upon,
Was one of Nature's masterful, great men;
Born with strong arms that unfought victories won,
Direct of speech, and cunning with the pen,
Chosen for large designs, he had the art
Of winning with his humor, and he went
Straight to his mark, which was the human heart;
Wise, too, for what he could not break he bent.
Upon his back a more than Atlas' load
The burden of the Commonwealth was laid;
He stooped, and rose up with it, though the road
Shot suddenly downwards, not a whit dismayed.
Hold, warriors, councillors, kings! All now give place
To this dead Benefactor of the Race!

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

William Cullen Bryant

This ode was written for the Funeral Services held in New York City.

Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare,
Gentle and merciful and just!
Who in the fear of God, didst bear
The sword of power, a nation's trust.

In sorrow by thy bier we stand
Amid the awe that husheth all,
And speak the anguish of a land
That shook with horror at thy fall.

Thy task is done; the bonds are free;
We bear thee to an honored grave,
Whose proudest monument shall be
The broken fetters of the slave.

Pure was thy life; its bloody close
Has placed thee with the Sons of Light,
Among the noble host of those
Who perished in the cause of Right.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

Alice Cary

INSCRIBED TO "PUNCH"

No glittering chaplet brought from other lands!
As in his life, this man, in death, is ours;
His own loved prairies o'er his "gaunt, gnarled hands"
Have fitly drawn their sheet of summer flowers!

What need hath he now of a tardy crown,
His name from mocking jest and sneer to save?
When every ploughman turns his furrow down
As soft as though it fell upon his grave.

He was a man whose like the world again
Shall never see, to vex with blame or praise;
The landmarks that attest his bright, brief reign
Are battles, not the pomps of gala days!

The grandest leader of the grandest war
That ever time in history gave a place;
What were the tinsel flattery of a star
To such a breast! or what a ribbon's grace!

'Tis to th' _man_, and th' man's honest worth,
The nation's loyalty in tears upsprings;
Through him the soil of labor shines henceforth
High o'er the silken broideries of kings.

The mechanism of external forms--
The shrifts that courtiers put their bodies through,
Were alien ways to him--his brawny arms
Had other work than posturing to do!

Born of the people, well he knew to grasp
The wants and wishes of the weak and small;
Therefore we hold him with no shadowy clasp--
Therefore his name is household to us all.

Therefore we love him with a love apart
From any fawning love of pedigree--
His was the royal soul and mind and heart--
Not the poor outward shows of royalty.

Forgive us then, O friends, if we are slow
To meet your recognition of his worth--
We're jealous of the very tears that flow
From eyes that never loved a humble hearth.

YOUR FLAG AND MY FLAG

Wilbur D. Nesbit

Your Flag and my Flag,
And how it flies today
In your land and my land
And half the world away!
Rose-red and blood-red
The stripes forever gleam;
Snow-white and soul-white--
The good forefather's dream;
Sky-blue and true-blue, with stars to gleam aright--
The gloried guidon of the day; a shelter through the night.

Your Flag and my Flag!
And, oh, how much it holds--
Your land and my land--
Secure within its folds!
Your heart and my heart
Beat quicker at the sight;
Sun-kissed and wind-tossed,
Red and blue and white.
The one Flag--the great Flag--the Flag for me and you--
Glorified all else beside--the red and white and blue!

Your Flag and my Flag!
To every star and stripe
The drums beat as hearts beat
And fifers shrilly pipe!
Your Flag and my Flag--
A blessing in the sky;
Your hope and my hope--
It never hid a lie!
Home land and far land and half the world around,
Old Glory hears our glad salute and ripples to the sound!

THE DEATH OF LINCOLN

Charles G. Halpin

He filled the nation's eye and heart,
An honored, loved, familiar name,
So much a brother that his fame
Seemed of our lives a common part.

His towering figure, sharp and spare,
Was with such nervous tension strung,
As if on each strained sinew swung
The burden of a people's care.

He was his country's, not his own;
He had no wish but for her weal;
Not for himself could think or feel,
But as a laborer for her throne.

O, loved and lost! thy patient toil
Had robed our cause in Victory's light;
Our country stood redeemed and bright,
With not a slave on all her soil.

A martyr to the cause of man,
His blood is freedom's eucharist,
And in the world's great hero list,
His name shall lead the van.

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!

Walt Whitman

Abraham Lincoln was killed by John Wilkes Booth, almost exactly four years after the first shot was fired at Fort Sumter. This song and Edwin Markham's poem on Lincoln are two of the greatest tributes ever paid to that hero.

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.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

Joel Benton

Some opulent force of genius, soul, and race,
Some deep life-current from far centuries
Flowed to his mind and lighted his sad eyes,
And gave his name, among great names, high place.

But these are miracles we may not trace,
Nor say why from a source and lineage mean
He rose to grandeur never dreamt or seen
Or told on the long scroll of history's space.

The tragic fate of one broad hemisphere
Fell on stern days to his supreme control,
All that the world and liberty held dear
Pressed like a nightmare on his patient soul.

Martyr beloved, on whom, when life was done,
Fame looked, and saw another Washington!

ON THE LIFE-MASK OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN

Richard Watson Gilder

This bronze doth keep the very form and mold
Of our great martyr's face. Yes, this is he:
That brow all wisdom, all benignity;
That human humorous mouth; those cheeks that hold
Like some harsh landscape all the summer's gold;
That spirit fit for sorrow, as the sea
For storms to beat on; the lone agony
Those silent, patient lips too well foretold.
Yes, this is he who ruled a world of men
As might some prophet of the elder day--
Brooding above the tempest and the fray
With deep-eyed thought and more than mortal ken.
A power was his beyond the touch of art
Or armed strength--his pure and mighty heart.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

James Russell Lowell

This is a fragment of the noble Commemoration Ode delivered at Harvard College to the memory of those of its students who fell in the war which kept the country whole.

Such was he, our Martyr-Chief,
Whom late the Nation he had led,
With ashes on her head,
Wept with the passion of an angry grief:
Forgive me, if from present things I turn
To speak what in my heart will beat and burn,
And hang my wreath on this world-honored urn.
Nature, they say, doth dote,
And cannot make a man
Save on some worn-out plan,
Repeating us by rote:
For him her Old-World moulds aside she threw,
And, choosing sweet clay from the breast
Of the unexhausted West,
With stuff untainted shaped a hero new,
Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true.
How beautiful to see
Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed,
Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead;
One whose meek flock the people joyed to be,
Not lured by any cheat of birth,
But by his clear-grained human worth,
And brave old wisdom of sincerity!
They knew that outward grace is dust;
They could not choose but trust
In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill,
And supple-tempered will
That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust.
His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind,
Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars,
A sea-mark now, now lost in vapors blind;
Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined,
Fruitful and friendly for all human kind,
Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of loftiest stars.

* * * * *

I praise him not; it were too late;
And some innative weakness there must be
In him who condescends to victory
Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait,
Safe in himself as in a fate.
So always firmly he:
He knew to bide his time,
And can his fame abide,
Still patient in his simple faith sublime,
Till the wise years decide.
Great captains, with their guns and drums,
Disturb our judgment for the hour,
But at last silence comes;
These all are gone, and, standing like a tower,
Our children shall behold his fame.
The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man,
Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame,
New birth of our new soil, the first American.

OUR ABRAHAM

Out of the mellow West there came
A man whom neither praise nor blame
Could gild or tarnish; one who rose
With fate-appointed swiftness far
Above his friends, above his foes;
Whose life shone like a splendid star,
To fill his people's hearts with flame;
Who never sought for gold or fame;
But gave himself without a price--
A willing, humble sacrifice--
An erring Nation's Paschal Lamb--
The great, gaunt, patient Abraham.

I never saw his wrinkled face,
Where tears and smiles disputed place;
I never touched his homely hand,
That seemed in benediction raised,
E'en when it emphasized command,
What time the fires of battle blazed,
The hand that signed the act of grace
Which freed a wronged and tortured race;
And yet I feel that he is mine--
My country's; and that light divine
Streams from the saintly oriflamme
Of great, gaunt, patient Abraham.

He was our standard-bearer; he
Caught up the thread of destiny,
And round the breaking Union bound
And wove it firmly. To his task
He rose gigantic; nor could sound
Of menace daunt him. Did he ask
For homage when glad Victory
Followed his flags from sea to sea?
Nay, but he staunched the wounds of war;
And you owe all you have and are--
And I owe all I have and am
To great, gaunt, patient Abraham.

The pillars of our temple rocked
Beneath the mighty wind that shocked
Foundations that the fathers laid;
But he upheld the roof and stood
Fearless, while others were afraid;
His sturdy strength and faith were good,
While coward knees together knocked,
And traitor hands the door unlocked,
To let the unbeliever in.
He bore the burden of our sin,
While the rebel voices rose to damn
The great, gaunt, patient Abraham.

And then he died a martyr's death--
Forgiveness in his latest breath,
And peace upon his dying lips.
He died for me; he died for you;
Heaven help us if his memory slips
Out of our hearts! His soul was true
And clean and beautiful. What saith
Dull history that reckoneth
But coldly? That he was a man
Who loved his fellows as few can;
And that he hated every sham--
Our great, gaunt, patient Abraham.

Majestic, sweet, was Washington;
And Jefferson was like the sun--
He glorified the simplest thing
He touched; and Andrew Jackson seems
The impress of a fiery king
To leave upon us: these in dreams
Are oft before us; but the one
Whose vast work was so simply done--
The Lincoln of our war-tried years--
Has all our deepest love; in tears,
We chant the In Memoriam
Of great, gaunt, patient Abraham.

LINCOLN, THE MAN OF THE PEOPLE[D]

Edwin Markham

This poem, which is considered one of the two best tributes ever paid to Lincoln, the other being Walt Whitman's O Captain! My Captain! is a tremendously virile and earnest summing up of the meaning of the man (Lincoln) and his life; a lesson in patriotism and a masterful piece of hero worship.

When the Norn-Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour
Greatening and darkening as it hurried on,
She left the Heaven of Heroes and came down
To make a man to meet the mortal need.
She took the tried clay of the common road--
Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth,
Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy;
Tempered the heap with thrill of mortal tears;
Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff.
It was a stuff to hold against the world,
A man to match our mountains, and compel
The stars to look our way and honor us.

The color of the ground was in him, the red earth;
The tang and odor of the primal things;
The rectitude and patience of the rocks;
The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn;
The courage of the bird that dares the sea;
The justice of the rain that loves all leaves;
The pity of the snow that hides all scars;
The loving-kindness of the wayside well;
The tolerance and equity of light
That gives as freely to the shrinking weed
As to the great oak flaring to the wind--
To the grave's low hill as to the Matterhorn
That shoulders out the sky.

And so he came.
From prairie cabin up to Capitol,
One fair Ideal led our chieftain on.
Forevermore he burned to do his deed
With the fine stroke and gesture of a king.
He built the rail-pile as he built the State,
Pouring his splendid strength through every blow,
The conscience of him testing every stroke,
To make his deed the measure of a man.

So came the Captain with the mighty heart;
And when the step of Earthquake shook the house,
Wrenching the rafters from their ancient hold,
He held the ridgepole up, and spiked again
The rafters of the Home. He held his place--
Held the long purpose like a growing tree--
Held on through blame and faltered not at praise.
And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down
As when a kingly cedar green with boughs
Goes down with a great shout upon the hills,
And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.

[D] From Lincoln and Other Poems by Edwin Markham. By permission of The McClure Company and the author. Copyright, 1901, by Edwin Markham.

This poem was revised by Mr. Markham especially for use in this book. Copyright, 1908, by Edwin Markham. Reprinting in whatever form is expressly forbidden, unless through special permission of the author.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

Tom Taylor[E]

You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier,
You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace,
Broad for the self-complacent British sneer,
His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face,
His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair,
His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease,
His lack of all we prize as debonair,
Of power or will to shine, of art to please.

You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh,
Judging each step as though the way were plain:
Reckless, so it could point its paragraph
Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain.
Beside this corpse that bears for winding-sheet
The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew,
Between the mourner at his head and feet,
Say, scurril-jester, is there room for you?
Yes! He had lived to shame me from my sneer,
To lame my pencil and confute my pen;
To make me own this hind of princes peer,
This rail-splitter, a true-born king of men.
My shallow judgment I had learned to rue,
Noting how to occasion's height he rose,
How his quaint wit made home truth seem more true,
How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows.

How humble, yet how hopeful, he could be:
How in good fortune and in ill the same:
Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he,
Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame.
He went about his work--such work as few
Ever had laid on head and heart and hand--
As one who knows, where there's a task to do,
Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command;
Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow,
That God makes instruments to work His will,
If but that will we can arrive to know,
Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill.
So he went forth to battle, on the side
That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's,
As in his peasant boyhood he had plied
His warfare with rude Nature's thwarting mights--
The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil,
The iron-bark, that turns the lumberer's axe,
The rapid that o'erbears the boatman's toil,
The prairie hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks,
The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear--
Such were the deeds that helped his youth to train:
Rough culture--but such trees large fruit may bear,
If but their stocks be of right girth and grain.

So he grew up a destined work to do,
And lived to do it: four long-suffering years.
Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report lived through,
And then he heard the hisses changed to cheers,
The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise,
And took both with the same unwavering mood:

Till, as he came on light, from darkling days
And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood,
A felon hand, between the goal and him,
Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest,
And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim,
Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest!
The words of mercy were upon his lips,
Forgiveness in his Heart and on his pen,
When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse
To thoughts of peace on earth, good will to men.

The Old World and the New, from sea to sea,
Utter one voice of sympathy and shame.
Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high!
Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came!
A deed accurst! Strokes have been struck before
By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt
If more of horror or disgrace they bore;
But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out,
Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife,
Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven,
And with the martyr's crown crownest a life
With much to praise, little to be forgiven.

[E] The authorship of this poem seems to be surrounded by somewhat of a doubt. Mark Lemon, editor of Punch at the time when this was written, is sometimes accredited with writing the tribute; then again, Spielman's History of Punch ascribes it to Shirley Brooks, who also was editor of Punch for a few years.

The poem first appeared anonymously in the London Punch, May 6, 1865. Accompanying it was an engraving of Brittania mourning at Lincoln's bier and placing a wreath thereon. Columbia was represented as weeping at the head of the President, and at the foot of the bier was a slave with broken shackles. Underneath was the inscription, "Brittania sympathizes with Columbia."

It is now generally believed that the author of the famous tribute was the journalist and dramatist, Tom Taylor, the author of the comedy, Our American Cousin, a performance of which President Lincoln was witnessing at the time of his assassination.

LINCOLN

Henry Tyrrell

Lincoln arose! the masterful, great man,
Girt with rude grandeur, quelling doubt and fear,--
A more than king, yet in whose veins there ran
The red blood of the people, warm, sincere,
Blending of Puritan and Cavalier.
A will whose force stern warriors came to ask,
A heart that melted at a mother's tear--
These brought he to his superhuman task:
Over a tragic soul he wore a comic mask.

He was the South's child more than of the North!
His soul was not compact of rock and snow,
But such as old Kentucky's soil gives forth,--
The splendid race of giants that we know,
Firm unto friend, and loyal unto foe,
Such birthrights all environment forestall,
Resistlessly their tides of impulse flow.
This man who answered to his country's call
Was full of human faults, and nobler for them all.

He is a life, and not a legend, yet:
For thousands live who shook him by the hand,
Millions whose sympathies with his were set,
Whose hopes and griefs alike with his were grand,
Who deeply mourned his passing. They demand
Our homage to the greatest man they saw,--
They, his familiars; and throughout our land
The years confirm them, over race and law:
Even of rancor now the voice is hush'd in awe.

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY

Francis Miles Finch

The women of Columbus, Mississippi, had shown themselves impartial in the offerings made to the memory of the dead. They strewed flowers alike on the graves of the Confederates and of the National soldiers.

By the flow of the inland river,
Whence the fleets of iron have fled,
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,
Asleep are the ranks of the dead;
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the one, the Blue;
Under the other, the Gray.

These in the robings of glory,
Those in the gloom of defeat;
All with the battle-blood gory,
In the dusk of eternity meet;
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the laurel, the Blue;
Under the willow, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours,
The desolate mourners go,
Lovingly laden with flowers,
Alike for the friend and the foe;
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the roses, the Blue;
Under the lilies, the Gray.

So, with an equal splendor,
The morning sun-rays fall,
With a touch impartially tender,
On the blossoms blooming for all;
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Broidered with gold, the Blue,
Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the summer calleth,
On forest and field of grain,
With an equal murmur falleth
The cooling drip of the rain;
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Wet with the rain, the Blue;
Wet with the rain, the Gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding,
The generous deed was done;
In the storm of the years that are fading,
No braver battle was won;
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the blossoms, the Blue;
Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war cry sever,
Or the winding rivers be red;
They banish our anger forever,
When they laurel the graves of our dead.
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Love and tears for the Blue,
Tears and love for the Gray.

LINCOLN: A MAN CALLED OF GOD

John Mellen Thurston

Extract from an address delivered before the Chicago Lincoln Association, February 12, 1891.

God's providence has raised up a leader in every time of a people's exceeding need.

Moses, reared in the family of Pharaoh, initiated in the sublime mysteries of the priestcraft of Egypt, partaking of the power and splendor of royal family and favor, himself a ruler and almost a king, was so moved by the degraded and helpless condition of his enslaved brethren that for their sake he undertook what to human understanding seemed the impossible problem of deliverance....

A peasant girl, a shepherdess, dreaming on the hills of France, feels her simple heart burn with the story of her country's wrongs. Its army beaten, shattered and dispersed; its fields laid waste; its homes pillaged and burned; its people outraged and murdered; its prince fleeing for life before a triumphant and remorseless foe. Hope for France was dead. Heroes, there were none to save. What could a woman do?

Into the soul of this timid, unlettered mountain maid there swept a flood of glorious resolve. Some power, unknown to man, drew back the curtain from the glass of fate and bade her look therein. As in a vision, she sees a new French army, courageous, hopeful, victorious, invincible. A girl, sword in hand, rides at its head; before it the invaders flee. She sees France restored, her fields in bloom, her cottages in peace, her people happy, her prince crowned.

The rail-splitter of Illinois became President of the United States in the darkest hour of the nation's peril. Inexperienced and untrained in governmental affairs, he formulated national politics, overruled statesmen, directed armies, removed generals, and, when it became necessary to save the Republic, set at naught the written Constitution. He amazed the politicians and offended the leaders of his party; but the people loved him by instinct, and followed him blindly. The child leads the blind man through dangerous places, not by reason of controlling strength and intelligence, but by certainty of vision. Abraham Lincoln led the nation along its obscure pathway, for his vision was above the clouds, and he stood in the clear sunshine of God's indicated will.

So stands the mountain while the murky shadows thicken at its base, beset by the tempest, lashed by the storm, darkness and desolation on every side; no gleam of hope in the lightning's lurid lances, nor voice of safety in the crashing thunder-bolts; but high above the top-most mist, vexed by no wave of angry sound, kissed by the sun of day, wooed by the stars at night, the eternal summit lifts its snowy crest, crowned with the infinite serenity of peace.

"And God said--let there be light, and there was light." Light on the ocean, light on the land.

"And God said--let there be light, and there was light." Light from the cross of calvary, light from the souls of men.

"And God said--let there be light, and there was light'." Light from the emancipation proclamation, light on the honor of the nation, light on the Constitution of the United States, light on the black faces of patient bondmen, light on every standard of freedom throughout the world.

From the hour in which the cause of the Union became the cause of liberty, from the hour in which the flag of the Republic became the flag of humanity, from the hour in which the stars and stripes no longer floated over a slave; yea, from the sacred hour of the nation's new birth, that dear old banner never faded from the sky, and the brave boys who bore it never wavered in their onward march to victory....

After a quarter of a century of peace and prosperity, all children of our common country kneel at the altar of a reunited faith. The Blue and Gray lie in eternal slumber side by side. Heroes all, they fell face to face, brother against brother, to expiate a nation's sin. The lonely firesides and the unknown graves, the memory of the loved, the yearning for the lost, the desolated altars and the broken hopes, are past recall. The wings of our weak protests beat in vain against the iron doors of fate. But through the mingled tears that fall alike upon the honored dead of both, the North and South turn hopeful eyes to that new future of prosperity and power, possible only in the shelter of the dear old flag. To the conquerors and the conquered, to the white man and the black, to the master and the slave, Abraham Lincoln was God's providence.

JONATHAN TO JOHN

James Russell Lowell

This poetic effusion of Mr. Hosea Biglow was preceded by the Idyl of the Bridge and the Monument, which set forth another side of American feeling at the British words and deeds consequent on the unauthorized capture, by Commodore Wilkes, of the Trent, conveying to England two Confederate Commissioners.

It don't seem hardly right, John,
When both my hands was full,
To stump me to a fight, John--
Your cousin, tu, John Bull!
Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess
We know it now," sez he,
"The lion's paw is all the law,
Accordin' to J. B.,
Thet's fit for you an' me!"

You wonder why we're hot, John?
Your mark wuz on the guns,
The neutral guns, thet shot, John,
Our brothers an' our sons:
Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess
There's human blood," sez he,
"By fits an' starts, in Yankee hearts,
Though 't may surprise J. B.
More'n it would you an' me."

Ef _I_ turned mad dogs loose, John,
On _your_ front-parlor stairs,
Would it jest meet your views, John,
To wait and sue their heirs?
Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess,
I only guess," sez he,
"Thet ef Vattel on _his_ toes fell,
'T would kind o' rile J. B.,
Ez wal ez you an' me!"

Who made the law thet hurts, John,
_Heads I win,--ditto tails_?
"_J. B._" was on his shirts, John,
Onless my memory fails.
Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess
(I'm good at thet)," sez he,
"Thet sauce for goose ain't jest the juice
For ganders with J. B.,
No more than you or me!"

When your rights was our wrongs, John,
You didn't stop for fuss,--
Britanny's trident prongs, John,
Was good 'nough law for us.
Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess,
Though physic's good," sez he,
"It doesn't foller that he can swaller
Prescriptions signed '_J. B._,'
Put up by you an' me!"

We own the ocean, tu, John:
You mus'n' take it hard,
If we can't think with you, John,
It's jest your own back-yard.
Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess,
If _thet's_ his claim," sez he,
"The fencin'-stuff 'll cost enough
To bust up friend J. B.,
Ez wal ez you an' me!"

Why talk so dreffle big, John,
Of honor when it meant
You didn't care a fig, John,
But jest for _ten per cent_?
Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess
He's like the rest," sez he:
"When all is done, it's number one
Thet's nearest to J. B.,
Ez wal ez you an' me!"