Chapter IV: Introduction: The Poetic Spirit of Lincoln (3)

As thus he filled his high exalted place,
The brave emancipator of a race,
He thought of the fierce struggle and the victory
And humbly deemed himself to be
Only the instrument of a Divine decree.
Rejoicing in the faith of brighter coming days
His "fervent prayers" were merged in those of praise.

Like unto psalmists of the olden time
His uttered thoughts inspired the nation's song,
Throughout the land the chorus rose sublime,
The exultant triumph of the right o'er wrong.

"Behold, what God the Lord hath wrought,"
More than we asked, or hoped, or thought.
Through the "Red sea" of blood and carnage
He brought our nation free of bondage.
With Moses sing, yea shout O North;
With Miriam answer back O South:
That "He hath triumphed gloriously."

. . . . .

Oh why the sudden blotting out of light?
The cloud of sorrow, dark as Plutonian night,
That cast its lengthening shadow o'er the land;
Changing to funeral dirge the choral grand.
Swift as the typhoon's breath--
The harbinger of death--
The cruel deed of hate
Swept the grand chief away.
Unto this day, and ever aye,
The nation mourns her martyr's fate.

ADDRESS DELIVERED AT THE DEDICATION
OF THE CEMETERY AT GETTYSBURG

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate--we cannot consecrate--we cannot hallow--this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us,--that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave their last full measure of devotion--that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain--that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom--and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

November 19, 1863. ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

"Undoubtedly there were many in the audience who fully appreciated the beauty of the President's address, and many of those who read it on the following day perceived its wondrous character; but it is apparent that its full force and grandeur were not generally recognized then, either by its auditors or its readers. Not until the war had ended and the great leader had fallen did the nation realize that this speech had given to Gettysburg another claim to immortality and to American eloquence its highest glory."--From the monograph on the Gettysburg Address, by Maj. William H. Lambert.

Bayard Taylor, born in Kennett Square, Chester County, Pennsylvania, on the 11th of January, 1825. Died in Berlin, Germany, on the 19th of December, 1878. His boyhood was passed on a farm near Kennett. He learned to read at four, began to write at an early age, and from his twelfth year wrote poems, novels and historical essays, but mostly poems. In 1837 the family moved to Westchester, and there and at Unionville he had five years of high-school training. His first poem printed was contributed to the _Saturday Evening Post_, in 1841, and those to the _New York Tribune_ from abroad, written in 1844, were widely read and shortly after his return were collected and published in _Views Afoot, or Europe Seen With Knapsack and Staff_. With a friend he bought a printing office in 1846, and began to publish the _Phoenixville Pioneer_, but it was as a poet that he excelled above most other vocations.

GETTYSBURG ODE

After the eyes that looked, the lips that spake
Here, from the shadows of impending death,
Those words of solemn breath,
What voice may fitly break
The silence, doubly hallowed, left by him?
We can but bow the head, with eyes grown dim,
And, as a Nation's litany, repeat
The phrase his martyrdom hath made complete,
Noble as then, but now more sadly sweet:
"Let us, the Living, rather dedicate
Ourselves to the unfinished work, which they
Thus far advanced so nobly on its way,
And saved the periled State!
Let us, upon this field where they, the brave,
Their last full measure of devotion gave,
Highly resolve they have not died in vain!--
That, under God, the Nation's later birth
Of freedom, and the people's gain
Of their own Sovereignty, shall never wane
And perish from the circle of the earth!"
From such a perfect text, shall Song aspire
To light her faded fire,
And into wandering music turn
Its virtue, simple, sorrowful, and stern?
His voice all elegies anticipated;
For, whatsoe'er the strain,
We hear that one refrain:
"We consecrate ourselves to them, the Consecrated!"

Benjamin Franklin Taylor, born at Lowville, New York, July 19, 1819. He was for several years connected with the _Chicago Evening Journal_. He wrote _Pictures of Life in Camp and Field_ (1871); _The World on Wheels_, etc. (1874); _Songs of Yesterday_ (1877); _Between the Gates_ (1878); _Summer Savory_, etc. (1879); _Dulce Domum_ (1884); _Theophilus Trent_, a novel (1887); etc. Among his best known poems are: _Isle of the Long Ago_, _Rhymes of the River_, and _The Old Village Choir_.

LINCOLN'S SECOND INAUGURAL

The following is an excerpt from a _Centennial Poem_ read by
B. F. Taylor on Decoration Day (May 30, 1876), on the
occasion of the centennial celebration by the Department of
the Potomac, Grand Army of the Republic, at Arlington
Cemetery, Washington, D. C.

They see the pilgrims to the Springfield tomb--
Be proud today, oh, portico of gloom!--
Where lies the man in solitary state
Who never caused a tear but when he died
And set the flags around the world half-mast--
The gentle Tribune and so grandly great
That e'en the utter avarice of Death
That claims the world, and will not be denied,
Could only rob him of his mortal breath.
How strange the splendor, though the man be past!
His noblest inspiration was his last.
The statues of the Capitol are there.
As when he stood upon the marble stair
And said those words so tender, true and just,
A royal psalm that took mankind on trust--
Those words that will endure and he in them,
While May wears flowers upon her broidered hem,
And all that marble snows and drifts to dust:
"Fondly do we hope, fervently we pray
That this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away:
With charity for all, with malice toward none,
With firmness in the right
As God shall give us light,
Let us finish the work already begun,
Care for the battle sons, the Nation's wounds to bind,
Care for the helpless ones that they will leave behind,
Cherish it we will, achieve it if we can,
A just and lasting peace, forever unto man!"
Amid old Europe's rude and thundering years,
When people strove as battle-clouds are driven,
One calm white angel of a day appears
In every year a gift direct from Heaven,
Wherein, from setting sun to setting sun
No thought of deed of bitterness was done.
"Day of the Truce of God!" Be this day ours,
Until perpetual peace flows like a river
And hopes as fragrant as these tribute flowers
Fill all the land forever and forever!

Photograph by Brady, Washington, D. C.]

Hermann Hagedorn, born in New York, July 18, 1882. Instructor in English at Harvard in 1909-1911. Wrote several one-act plays which were produced by the Harvard Dramatic Club, and by clubs of other colleges. Author of _The Silver Blade_ (a play in verse), _The Woman of Corinth_, _A Troop of the Guard_ and other poems.

OH, PATIENT EYES!

Oh, patient eyes! oh, bleeding, mangled heart!
Oh, hero, whose wide soul, defying chains,
Swept at each army's head,
Swept to the charge and bled,
Gathering in one too sorrow-laden heart
All woes, all pains;
The anguish of the trusted hope that wanes,
The soldier's wound, the lonely mourner's smart.
He knew the noisy horror of the fight,
From dawn to dusk and through the hideous night
He heard the hiss of bullets, the shrill scream
Of the wide-arching shell,
Scattering at Gettysburg or by Potomac's stream,
Like summer flowers, the pattering rain of death;
With every breath,
He tasted battle and in every dream,
Trailing like mists from gaping walls of hell,
He heard the thud of heroes as they fell.

Photograph by Brady]

Margaret Elizabeth Sangster, born at New Rochelle, New York, February 22, 1838. Educated privately, chiefly in New York. Became contributor to leading periodicals; also editor of _Hearth and Home_, 1871-73; _Christian at Work_, 1873-79; _The Christian Intelligencer_ since 1879; postmistress _Harper's Young People_, 1882-89; editor _Harper's Bazar_, 1889-99; staff contributor _Christian Herald_ since 1894; _Ladies' Home Journal_, 1899-1905; _Woman's Home Companion_ since 1905. Author _Poems of the Household_; _Home Fairies and Heart Flowers_; _On the Road Home_; _Easter Bells_; _Winsome Womanhood_; _Little Knights and Ladies_; _Lyrics of Love_; _When Angels Come to Men_; _Good Manners for All Occasions_; _The Story Bible_; _Fairest Girlhood_; _From My Youth Up_; _Happy School Days_. She died June 4, 1912.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

(_February 12, 1809-1909_)

Child of the boundless prairie, son of the virgin soil,
Heir to the bearing of burdens, brother to them that toil;
God and Nature together shaped him to lead in the van,
In the stress of her wildest weather when the Nation needed
a Man.

Eyes of a smoldering fire, heart of a lion at bay,
Patience to plan for tomorrow, valor to serve for today,
Mournful and mirthful and tender, quick as a flash with a jest,
Hiding with gibe and great laughter the ache that was dull
in his breast.

Met were the Man and the Hour--Man who was strong for the shock--
Fierce were the lightnings unleashed; in the midst, he stood
fast as a rock.
Comrade he was and commander, he who was meant for the time,
Iron in council and action, simple, aloof, and sublime.

Swift slip the years from their tether, centuries pass like a
breath,
Only some lives are immortal, challenging darkness and death.
Hewn from the stuff of the martyrs, write on the stardust
his name,
Glowing, untarnished, transcendent, high on the records of Fame.

Oh, man of many sorrows, 'twas your blood
That flowed at Chickamauga, at Bull Run,
Vicksburg, Antietam, and the gory wood
And Wilderness of ravenous Deaths that stood
Round Richmond like a ghostly garrison:
Your blood for those who won,
For those who lost, your tears!
For you the strife, the fears,
For us, the sun!
For you the lashing winds and the beating rain in your eyes,
For us the ascending stars and the wide, unbounded skies.

Oh, man of storms! Patient and kingly soul!
Oh, wise physician of a wasted land!
A nation felt upon its heart your hand,
And lo, your hand hath made the shattered, whole,
With iron clasp your hand hath held the wheel
Of the lurching ship, on tempest waves no keel
Hath ever sailed.
A grim smile held your lips when strong men quailed.
You strove alone with chaos and prevailed;
You felt the grinding shock and did not reel,
And, ah, your hand that cut the battle's path
Wide with the devastating plague of wrath,
Your bleeding hand, gentle with pity yet,
Did not forget
To bless, to succor, and to heal.

Photograph by Alexander Gardner, Washington, D. C., 1864]

Wilbur Dick Nesbit was born at Xenia, Ohio, September 16, 1871. Educated in the public schools at Cedarville, Ohio. Was printer and reporter on various Ohio and Indiana papers until 1898; verse writer and paragrapher _Baltimore American_, 1899-1902; since that year writer of verse and humor _Chicago Evening Post_ and other newspapers, contributor of stories and poems to magazines and periodicals. Author of _Little Henry's Slate_, 1903; _The Trail to Boyland and Other Poems_, 1904; _An Alphabet of History_, 1905; _The Gentleman Ragman_, 1906; _A Book of Poems_, 1906; _The Land of Make-Believe and Other Christmas Poems_, 1907; _A Friend or Two_, 1908; _The Loving Cup_ (compilation), 1909; _The Old, Old Wish_, 1911; _My Company of Friends_, 1911; _If the Heart be Glad_, 1911; co-author with Otto Hauerbach of _The Girl of My Dreams_, a musical comedy, 1910.

THE MAN LINCOLN

Not as the great who grow more great
Until from us they are apart--
He walks with us in man's estate;
We know his was a brother heart.
The marching years may render dim
The humanness of other men;
Today we are akin to him
As they who knew him best were then.

Wars have been won by mail-clad hands,
Realms have been ruled by sword-hedged kings,
But he above these others stands
As one who loved the common things;
The common faith of man was his,
The common faith of man he had--
For this today his grave face is
A face half joyous and half sad.

A man of earth! Of earthy stuff,
As honest as the fruitful soil,
Gnarled as the friendly trees, and rough
As hillsides that had known his toil;
Of earthy stuff--let it be told,
For earth-born men rise and reveal
A courage fair as beaten gold
And the enduring strength of steel.

So now he dominates our thought.
This humble great man holds us thus
Because of all he dreamed and wrought;
Because he is akin to us.
He held his patient trust in truth
While God was working out His plan,
And they that were his foes, forsooth,
Came to pay tribute to the Man.

Not as the great who grow more great
Until they have a mystic fame--
No stroke of fortune nor of fate
Gave Lincoln his undying name.
A common man, earth-bred, earth-born,
One of the breed who work and wait--
His was a soul above all scorn.
His was a heart above all hate.

Photograph taken on the battlefield, September, 1862,
with General McClellan and Allen Pinkerton]

Edwin Arlington Robinson, born at Head Tide, Maine, December 22, 1869. Educated at Gardiner, Maine, and Harvard University, 1891-3. Member National Institute Arts and Letters. Author: _The Torrent_ and _The Night Before_, 1896; _The Children of the Night_, 1897, 1905; _Captain Craig_ (poems), _The Town Down the River_, 1910.

THE MASTER

(LINCOLN)

A flying word from here and there
Had sown the name at which we sneered,
But soon the name was everywhere,
To be reviled and then revered:
A presence to be loved and feared,
We cannot hide it, or deny
That we, the gentlemen who jeered,
May be forgotten by and by.

He came when days were perilous
And hearts of men were sore beguiled;
And having made his note of us,
He pondered and was reconciled.
Was ever master yet so mild
As he, and so untamable?
We doubted, even when he smiled,
Not knowing what he knew so well.

He knew that undeceiving fate
Would shame us whom he served unsought;
He knew that he must wince and wait--
The jest of those for whom he fought;
He knew devoutly what he thought
Of us and of our ridicule;
He knew that we must all be taught
Like little children in a school.

We gave a glamour to the task
That he encountered and saw through,
But little of us did he ask,
And little did we ever do.
And what appears if we review
The season when we railed and chaffed?
It is the face of one who knew
That we were learning while we laughed.

The face that in our vision feels
Again the venom that we flung,
Transfigured to the world reveals
The vigilance to which we clung.
Shrewd, hallowed, harassed, and among
The mysteries that are untold,
The face we see was never young
Nor could it ever have been old.

For he, to whom we had applied
Our shopman's test of age and worth,
Was elemental when he died,
As he was ancient at his birth:
The saddest among kings of earth,
Bowed with a galling crown, this man
Met rancor with a cryptic mirth,
Laconic--and Olympian.

The love, the grandeur, and the fame
Are bounded by the world alone;
The calm, the smouldering, and the flame
Of awful patience were his own;
With him they are forever flown
Past all our fond self-shadowings,
Wherewith we cumber the Unknown
As with inept, Icarian wings.

For we were not as other men:
'Twas ours to soar and his to see.
But we are coming down again,
And we shall come down pleasantly;
Nor shall we longer disagree
On what it is to be sublime,
But flourish in our perigee
And have one Titan at a time.

Photograph by Gardner, Washington, D. C.
Taken when Lincoln appointed General U. S. Grant
Commander-in-chief of the Army, in 1864]

LINCOLN

_By Harriet Monroe_

And, lo! leading a blessed host comes one
Who held a warring nation in his heart;
Who knew love's agony, but had no part
In love's delight; whose mighty task was done
Through blood and tears that we might walk in joy,
And this day's rapture own no sad alloy.
Around him heirs of bliss, whose bright brows wear
Palm leaves amid their laurels ever fair.
Gaily they come, as though the drum
Beat out the call their glad hearts knew so well;
Brothers once more, dear as of yore,
Who in a noble conflict nobly fell.
Their blood washed pure yon banner in the sky,
And quenched the brands laid 'neath these arches high--
The brave who, having fought, can never die.

From a photograph taken with his Secretaries,
John G. Nicolay and John Hay,
Springfield, Illinois, 1861]

Walt Mason, born at Columbus, Ontario, May 4, 1862. Self educated. Came to the United States 1880. Connected with the _Atchinson Globe_ 1885-7, later with _Lincoln_ (Nebraska) _State Journal_ and other papers; editorial paragrapher _Evening News_, Washington, D. C., 1893; associated with William Allen White on _Emporia_ (Kansas) _Gazette_ since 1907. His rhymes and prose poems are widely copied in America.

THE EYES OF LINCOLN

Sad eyes that were patient and tender,
Sad eyes that were steadfast and true,
And warm with the unchanging splendor
Of courage no ills could subdue!

Eyes dark with the dread of the morrow,
And woe for the day that was gone,
The sleepless companions of sorrow,
The watchers that witnessed the dawn.

Eyes tired from the clamor and goading
And dim from the stress of the years,
And hallowed by pain and foreboding
And strained by repression of tears.

Sad eyes that were wearied and blighted
By visions of sieges and wars
Now watch o'er a country united
From the luminous slopes of the stars!

Photograph by Matthew Brady, Washington, D. C.]

Arthur Guiterman, author, born of American parentage, at Vienna, Austria, November 20, 1871. Editorial work on _Woman's Home Companion_, _Literary Digest_ and other magazines since 1891. Author of _Betel Nuts_, 1907; _Guest Book_, 1908; _Rubiayat_, including the _Literary Omar_, 1909, and _Orestes_ (with Andre Tridon), 1909. Contributor chiefly of ballad, lyric verse and short stories to magazines and newspapers.

HE LEADS US STILL

Dare we despair? Through all the nights and days
Of lagging war he kept his courage true.
Shall Doubt befog our eyes? A darker haze
But proved the faith of him who ever knew
That Right must conquer. May we cherish hate
For our poor griefs, when never word nor deed
Of rancor, malice, spite, of low or great,
In his large soul one poison-drop could breed?

He leads us still. O'er chasms yet unspanned
Our pathway lies; the work is but begun;
But we shall do our part and leave our land
The mightier for noble battles won.
Here Truth must triumph, Honor must prevail;
The nation Lincoln died for cannot fail!

Photograph by Brady, Washington, D. C., 1864]

S. Weir Mitchell, born at Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, February 15, 1829. Educated in grammar school, and University of Pennsylvania, but was not graduated because of illness during senior year; Doctor of Medicine, Jefferson Medical College, 1850; LL.D., Harvard, 1886; Edinburgh, 1895; Princeton, 1896; Toronto, 1896; Jefferson Medical College, Philadelphia, 1910. Established practice in Philadelphia. Author of many works on treatment of diseases. _Collected Poems_, 1896-1909; _Youth of Washington_, 1904; _A Diplomatic Adventure_, 1905; _The Mind Reader_, 1907; _A Christmas Venture_, 1907; _John Sherwood, Ironmaster_, 1911.

LINCOLN

Chained by stern duty to the rock of State,
His spirit armed in mail of rugged mirth,
Ever above, though ever near to earth,
Yet felt his heart the cruel tongues that sate
Base appetites and, foul with slander, wait
Till the keen lightnings bring the awful hour
When wounds and suffering shall give them power.
Most was he like to Luther, gay and great,
Solemn and mirthful, strong of heart and limb.
Tender and simple, too; he was so near
To all things human that he cast out fear,
And, ever simpler, like a little child,
Lived in unconscious nearness unto Him
Who always on earth's little ones hath smiled.

In the Public Square, Hodgenville, Kentucky.
Adolph A. Weinman, Sculptor]

George Alfred Townsend was born in Georgetown, Delaware, January 30, 1841. In 1860 he began writing for the press and speaking in public, and in 1860 adopted the profession of journalism. In 1862 he became a war correspondent for the _New York World_, the _Chicago Tribune_ and other papers, and made an enviable reputation as a descriptive writer. He also published a number of books both of prose and poetry.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

The peaceful valley reaching wide,
The wild war stilled on every hand;
On Pisgah's top our prophet died,
In sight of promised land.

Low knelt the foeman's serried fronts,
His cannon closed their lips of brass,--
The din of arms hushed all at once
To let this good man pass.

A cheerful heart he wore alway,
Though tragic years clashed on the while;
Death sat behind him at the play--
His last look was a smile.

No battle-pike his march imbrued,
Unarmed he went midst martial mails,
The footsore felt their hopes renewed
To hear his homely tales.

His single arm crushed wrong and thrall
That grand good will we only dreamed,
Two races wept around his pall,
One saved and one redeemed.

The trampled flag he raised again,
And healed our eagle's broken wing;
The night that scattered armed men
Saw scorpions rise to sting.

Photograph by Brady, Washington, D. C., 1864]

Paul Lawrence Dunbar, born of negro parents at Dayton, Ohio, June 27, 1872. Was graduated at the Dayton High School in 1891, and since then has devoted himself to literature and journalism. He has written _Oak and Ivy_ (poems); _Lyrics of Lowly Life_ (poems), and _The Uncalled_ (a novel). Since 1898 he has been on the staff of the Librarian of Congress.

LINCOLN

Hurt was the Nation with a mighty wound,
And all her ways were filled with clam'rous sound.
Wailed loud the South with unremitting grief,
And wept the North that could not find relief.
Then madness joined its harshest tone to strife:
A minor note swelled in the song of life
Till, stirring with the love that filled his breast,
But still, unflinching at the Right's behest
Grave Lincoln came, strong-handed, from afar,--
The mighty Homer of the lyre of war!
'Twas he who bade the raging tempest cease,
Wrenched from his strings the harmony of peace,
Muted the strings that made the discord,--Wrong,
And gave his spirit up in thund'rous song.
Oh, mighty Master of the mighty lyre!
Earth heard and trembled at thy strains of fire:
Earth learned of thee what Heaven already knew,
And wrote thee down among her treasured few!

Photograph by Gardner, Washington, D. C., 1865]

Alice Cary was born in Mount Healthy, near Cincinnati, Ohio, April 20, 1820. Her first book of poems, with her sister Phoebe, was published in 1850. Her poems and prose writings were pictures from life and nature, among which were _Pictures of Memory_, _Mulberry Hill_, _Coming Home_ and _Nobility_. She died at her home in New York City, February 12, 1871. This poem is inscribed to the _London Punch_.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

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 plowman 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 eternal forms--
The shifts that courtiers put their bodies through--
Were alien ways to him: his brawny arms
Had other work than posturing to do!

Photograph by Alexander Gardner, Washington, D. C., 1865]

Rose Terry Cooke was born in West Hartford, Connecticut, February 17, 1827. Graduated at Hartford Female Seminary in 1843. She has written many short stories and a number of books of poems.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

Hundreds there have been, loftier than their kind,
Heroes and victors in the world's great wars:
Hundreds, exalted as the eternal stars,
By the great heart, or keen and mighty mind;
There have been sufferers, maimed and halt and blind,
Who bore their woes in such triumphant calm
That God hath crowned them with the martyr's palm;
And there were those who fought through fire to find
Their Master's face, and were by fire refined.
But who like thee, oh Sire! hath ever stood
Steadfast for truth and right, when lies and wrong
Rolled their dark waters, turbulent and strong;
Who bore reviling, baseness, tears and blood
Poured out like water, till thine own was spent,
Then reaped Earth's sole reward--a grave and monument!

Photograph by Brady, Washington, D. C., 1865]

Frederick Lucian Hosmer, born at Framingham, Massachusetts, October 16, 1840. Graduated at Harvard in 1869. Ordained in Unitarian Ministry at Northboro, Massachusetts, in 1869. Author of _The Way of Life_, _The Thought of God, in Hymns and Poems_.

LINCOLN

The prairies to the mountains call,
The mountains to the sea;
From shore to shore a nation keeps
Her martyr's memory.

Though lowly born, the seal of God
Was in that rugged face;
Still from the humble Nazareths come
The Saviours of the race.

With patient heart and vision clear
He wrought through trying days--
"Malice toward none, with Charity for all,"
Unswerved by blame or praise.

And when the morn of peace broke through
The battle's cloud and din,
He hailed with joy the promised land,
He might now enter in.

He seemed as set by God apart,
The winepress trod alone;
He stands forth an uncrowned king,
A people's heart his throne.

Land of our loyal love and hope,
O Land he died to save,
Bow down, renew today thy vows
Beside his martyr grave!

Charles Monroe Dickinson, born at Lowville, New York, November 15, 1842. Educated at Fairfield (New York), Seminary and Lowville Academy. Admitted to the bar in 1865; practiced law in the State of Pennsylvania, at Binghamton, New York, and in New York City 1865-77, when he abandoned the profession because of broken health. Editor and proprietor of _Binghamton Republican_, 1878-1911. In 1892, upon his suggestion and initiative the various news organizations were combined into the present Associated Press. Presidential elector, 1896; United States Consul-General to Turkey, 1897-1906; Diplomatic agent to Bulgaria, 1901-1903. While acting in this capacity the American missionary, Ellen M. Stone, was carried off by brigands, but released through his settlement and efforts. Member board to draft regulations for government of American consular service 1906; American Consul-General at-large, 1906-October 1, 1908. Author of _History of Dickinson Family_, 1885; _The Children and Other Verses_, 1889; part of political history of State of New York, 1911.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

If any one hath doubt or fear
That this is Freedom's chosen clime--
That God hath sown and planted here
The richest harvest field of Time--
Let him take heart, throw off his fears,
As he looks back a hundred years.

Cities and fields and wealth untold,
With equal rights before the law;
And, better than all lands and gold--
Such as the old world never saw--
Freedom and peace, the right to be,
And honor to those who made us free.

Our greatness did not happen so,
We owe it not to chance or fate;
In furnace heat, by blow on blow,
Were forged the things that make us great;
And men still live who bore that heat,
And felt those deadly hammers beat.

Not in the pampered courts of kings,
Not in the homes that rich men keep,
God calls His Davids with their slings,
Or wakes His Samuels from their sleep;
But from the homes of toil and need
Calls those who serve as well as lead.

Such was the hero of our race;
Skilled in the school of common things,
He felt the sweat on Labor's face,
He knew the pinch of want, the sting
The bondman felt, and all the wrong
The weak had suffered from the strong.

God passed the waiting centuries by,
And kept him for our time of need--
To lead us with his courage high--
To make our country free indeed;
Then, that he be by none surpassed,
God crowned him martyr at the last.

Let speech and pen and song proclaim
Our grateful praise this natal morn;
Time hath preserved no nobler name,
And generations yet unborn
Shall swell the pride of those who can
Claim Lincoln as their countryman.

The building is a plain brick structure, three stories high, seventy-one feet front and one hundred feet deep. It was originally constructed and occupied as a Baptist Church, but at the beginning of the war was converted into a theatre, though never used for that purpose after the assassination of Lincoln. The government purchased it for one hundred thousand dollars, and it is now used as a branch of the Record and Pension Division of the War Department. President Lincoln was shot by J. Wilkes Booth at 10.20 o'clock P.M. on the evening of April 14, 1865, while seated in his private box in the theatre.

SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS!

_By Robert Leighton_

"Sic semper tyrannis!" the assassin cried,
As Lincoln fell. O villain! who than he
More lived to set both slave and tyrant free?
Or so enrapt with plans of freedom died,
That even thy treacherous deed shall glance aside
And do the dead man's will by land and sea;
Win bloodless battles, and make that to be
Which to his living mandate was denied!
Peace to that gentle heart! The peace he sought
For all mankind, nor for it dies in vain.
Rest to the uncrowned king, who, toiling, brought
His bleeding country through that dreadful reign;
Who, living, earned a world's revering thought,
And, dying, leaves his name without a stain.

_Liverpool, England,
May 5, 1865_

Foully assassinated, April 14, 1865]

Tom Taylor wrote the following poem, which appeared in the _London Punch_, May 6, 1865. The engraving is a facsimile of the one published in the paper at the head of the poem.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN, FOULLY ASSASSINATED

You lay a wreath on murdered LINCOLN'S bier,
_You_, who with mocking pencil wont to trace,
Broad for 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 mourners at his head and feet,
Say, scurrile-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 learnt 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 turned the lumberer's axe,
The rapid, that o'erbears the boatmen's toil,
The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks,

The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear--
Such were the needs 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 change 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 darking 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!

Immediately after the President was shot in Ford's Theatre he was carried across the street to the house of William Petersen and placed on a single bed in a room at the end of the hall. All through that weary night the watchers stood by the bedside. He was unconscious every moment from the time the bullet entered his head until Dr. Robert King Stone, the family physician, announced at twenty-two minutes after seven on the following morning that he had breathed his last (April 15, 1865). Upon this Secretary Edwin M. Stanton, Secretary of War, in a low voice said: "_Now He Belongs to the Ages_."

THE DEATHBED

Silence falls, unbroken save by sobs of strong men
In that room, where Lincoln, at the morning hour's chime
Passed out into the unknown from the world of human ken.
Gone his body and his life work from the world inclosed by time;
But in the silence that was falling after breath of broken prayer,
Words eternal broke the quiet like a bell toll on the air;
Never in the world's wide story, wiser spoke nor Prophet, spoke nor
Sages,
Than these words that broke the silence: "He belongs now to the Ages!"

"To the Ages!" well you spoke it, Stanton of the massive mind!
He belongs, the years have shown it, to the world of human kind!
Heard his story, where'er hearts throb o'er the world's far spreading
way;
Heard his story, children listen at the closing of the day;
Heard his story, lovers speak it in their hushed and saddened tones
As they wander in the twilight, dreaming of their coming homes;
Heard his story, statesmen tell it, with a thrill of pride and truth;
Heard his story, old men speak it to the country's growing youth.
And the years have shown the Prophets, and the years have shown the
Sages;
Writ in fire these words of wisdom, "He belongs now to the Ages!"

President]

Secretary of War]

Marion Mills Miller was born at Eaton, Ohio, February 27, 1864. He was graduated from Princeton in 1886, and for several years thereafter was an instructor there in the English department. In 1889 he received the degree of Doctor of Literature from his Alma Mater. Since 1893 he has been engaged in literary and social reform work in New York City. He has published some verse and fiction, but his most notable work has been in the fields of translation and history. He has edited _The Classics--Greek and Latin_ (15 volumes), published in 1909, and _Great Debates in American History_ (14 volumes), published in 1913.

In 1907 he edited the Centenary Edition of _The Life and Works of Abraham Lincoln_ in 10 volumes, logically arranged for ready reference. The _Life of Lincoln_ was published separately in 1908 in two volumes. It is based on a manuscript by Henry C. Whitney, whose name it bears as author, although the second volume, _Lincoln, the President_, was largely written by Dr. Miller. The late Major William H. Lambert, president of the Lincoln Fellowship, called it "the best of the shorter biographies of Lincoln." Dr. Miller has also edited _The Wisdom of Lincoln_ (1908), a small book of extracts from Lincoln's speeches and writings. He wrote the following poem, "Lincoln and Stanton," especially for THE POETS' LINCOLN.

The first reference in it is to the Manny-McCormick case over the patent rights of the reaping machine, in which Lincoln had been at first selected as principal pleader, but was superseded by Edwin M. Stanton. Having thoroughly prepared himself, he offered his assistance to Stanton, but was brusquely repulsed. He was so hurt that he felt like leaving the court room, but decided, in loyalty to his client, to remain, and, leaving his place among counsel, took a seat in the audience. Despite his injured feelings he was filled with admiration for Stanton's able and successful conduct of the case. Lincoln, probably referring to a slur of Stanton reported to him, said that he would have to go back to Illinois and "study more law," since the "college-bred" lawyers were pushing hard the "cornfield" ones.

The second reference is to Stanton's criticism of Lincoln's conservative course during the first months of his Presidency; "that imbecile at the White House," he called him. Stanton as Attorney-General at the close of Buchanan's administration had done effective work in foiling the plans of the Confederacy, and he believed in forceful measures to put down the rebellion in its incipiency.

The third reference is to the virtually enforced resignation of Simon Cameron, Lincoln's first Secretary of War, and Lincoln's choice to succeed him of Stanton, whom he realized to be the best equipped man in the country for the place.

The fourth reference is to Stanton's remark by the bedside of Lincoln as the stricken President ceased breathing: "There lies the greatest leader of men the world ever saw."

LINCOLN AND STANTON

Lincoln had cause one man alone to hate:
A fellow-lawyer, lacking in all grace,
Who cast uncalled-for insult in his face
When Lincoln as his colleague, with innate
Courtesy, proffered aid. With pride inflate
The scornful Stanton waved him to his place,
Snapping, "I need no help to try this case";
And "cornfield lawyer" muttered of his mate.

And when, as captain of the Union ship,
Lincoln drew sail before the gathering storm
Till favoring winds the shrouds unfurled should fill,
Stanton again curled his contemptuous lip
And, with the impatience of a patriot warm,
Sneered at the helmsman, "craven imbecile."

Laid was the course at length; the sails untried
Were spread; the raw crew set at spar and coil.
Now round the prow Charybdean waters boil
And ever higher surges war's red tide.
The mate who should the captain's care divide
Has strengthless proved. Where shall, the foe to foil,
A man be found able to bear the toil
And stand, to steer the ship, by Lincoln's side?

Stanton he called! The bitter choice he made
For country, not himself. The ship was driven
By the great twain through war's abyss, again
Into calm seas. Then Lincoln low was laid,
And Stanton paid him highest tribute given
To mortal: "Mightiest leader among men!"

1 President Lincoln. 2 Hon. Gideon Welles, Secretary of the
Navy. 3 John Hay, Esq., President's Private Secretary. 4 Hon.
E. M. Stanton, Secretary of War. 5 Rev. Dr. Gurley. 6 Gen.
Farnsworth, M. C. from Illinois. 7 Governor Ogilsby of Illinois.
8 General Todd. 9 Rufus Andrews, Esq. 10 Hon. W. T. Otto,
Assistant Secretary of the Interior. 11 Hon. W. Denison,
Postmaster-General. 12 Judge D. K. Carter. 13 Major-General
Halleck. 14 Captain Robert Lincoln. 15 Dr. Leale. 16 Hon. Charles
Sumner. 17 Dr. Crane, Assistant Surgeon-General. 18 Governor
Farwell, of Wisconsin. 19 Hon. J. P. Usher, Secretary of the
Interior. 20 Major-General Augur. 21 Major-General Meigs. 22
Maunsel B. Field, Esq. 23 Hon. Schuyler Colfax. 24 Hon. James
Speed, Attorney-General. 25 Hon. H. McCullough, Secretary of the
Treasury 26 Dr. R. K. Stone. 27 Surgeon-General Barnes.]

Washington, D. C.]

Born July 17, 1896. Died February 20, 1908]

Robert Mackay and his wife visited this historic house in 1902. They were met at the door and escorted through the various rooms containing the Collection by Little Josephine, and were deeply impressed at the knowledge she exhibited of Lincoln and the Collection, although she was but six years of age. Mr. Mackay was born at Virginia City, Nevada, April 22, 1871. Reporter _San Francisco Chronicle_, 1886. Worked on newspapers as printer, reporter and editor until 1895, when he traveled extensively over the world for the International News Syndicate; joined staff of the _New York World_ in 1899; managing editor of _Success Magazine_, 1900-1908. Editor the _Delineator_, 1908. Joined editorial department of the Frank A. Munsey Company in 1909, contributor of short stories, also other prose and verse.

THE HOUSE WHERE LINCOLN DIED

Above Judea's purple-mantled plain,
There hovers still, among the ruins lone,
The spirit of the Christ whose dying moan
Was heard in heaven, and paid our debt in pain.

As subtle perfume lingers with the rose,
Even when its petals flutter to the earth,
So clings the potent mystery of the birth
Of that deep love from which all mercy flows.

. . . . .

Within this house,--this room,--a martyr died,
A prophet of a larger liberty,--
A liberator setting bondmen free,
A full-orbed MAN, above mere mortal pride.

The cloud-rifts opening to celestial glades,
Oft glimpse him, and his spirit lingers still,
As Christ's sweet influence broods upon the hill
Where the red lily with the sunset fades.

. . . . .

A little girl with eyes of heavenly blue,
Sings through the old place, ignorant of all;
Her angel face, her cheerful, birdlike call
Thrilling the heart to life more full, more true.

IN TOKEN OF RESPECT

_Translation from Latin verses_

From humble parentage and low degree
Lincoln ascended to the highest rank;
None ever had a harder task than he,
It was perfected--him alone we thank.

Did the assassin think to kill a name,
Or hand his own down to posterity?
One will wear the laurel wreath of fame,
The other be condemned to infamy.

Caesar was killed by Brutus,
Yet Rome did not cease to be;
Lincoln by Booth, and yet the slaves
In all America are free!

Rieti, France, May, 1865

ENGLAND'S SORROW

_From London Fun_

The hand of an Assassin, glowing red,
Shot like a firebrand through the western sky;
And stalwart Abraham Lincoln now is dead!
O! felon heart that thus could basely dye
The name of southerner with murderous gore!
Could such a spirit come from mortal womb?
And what possessed it that not heretofore
It linked its coward mission with the tomb?
Lincoln! thy fame shall sound through many an age,
To prove that genius lives in humble birth;
Thy name shall sound upon historic page,
For 'midst thy faults we all esteemed thy worth.

Gone art thou now! no more 'midst angry heat
Shall thy calm spirit rule the surging tide,
Which rolls where two contending nations meet,
To still the passion and to curb the pride.
Nations have looked and seen the fate of kings,
Protectors, emperors, and such like men;
Behold the man whose dirge all Europe sings,
Now past the eulogy of mortal pen!
He, like a lighthouse, fell athwart the strand;
Let curses rest upon the assassin's hand.

Ceremonies in the East Room of the White House, April 19, 1865]

At ten minutes after twelve o'clock Rev. Charles H. Hall, of the Church of the Epiphany, opened the service by reading from the Episcopal Burial Service for the Dead. Bishop Matthew Simpson of the Methodist Church then offered prayer, and the Rev. Dr. Phineas D. Gurley, pastor of the New York Avenue Presbyterian Church, at which Mr. Lincoln and his family attended, delivered a sermon. The Rev. E. H. Gray, D.D., of the E Street Baptist Church, closed the solemn service with prayer.

Phineas Densmore Gurley, born at Hamilton, New York, 1816. Educated at Union College, Schenectady, New York. Taught during vacation, graduated 1837. Studied theology at the Theological Seminary, Princeton, New Jersey. Was licensed to preach in 1840. In 1840 he went to Indianapolis, Indiana, and took charge of a church. In 1849 he removed to Dayton, Ohio, taking charge of a church, and in 1853 moved to Washington, D. C., and took charge of a Presbyterian Church on F Street, afterwards Willard Hall. In 1858 was elected Chaplain of the United States Senate. In July, 1859, the Second Presbyterian Church and the F Street Church united, and were known as the New York Avenue Presbyterian Church, Dr. Gurley becoming its pastor from March, 1861, until his death. President Lincoln was a pew holder and a regular attendant, but was not a member. On one occasion the President remarked, "I like Dr. Gurley, he doesn't preach politics. I get enough of that during the week, and when I go to church I like to hear gospel."

When the President was assassinated Dr. Gurley was sent for and remained with the President until he breathed his last.

As soon as the spirit took its flight, Secretary Stanton turned to Dr. Gurley and said, "Doctor, will you say something?" After a brief pause, Dr. Gurley said, "Let us talk with God," and offered a touching prayer. Dr. Gurley died September 30, 1868.

THE FUNERAL HYMN OF LINCOLN

Rest, noble martyr! rest in peace;
Rest with the true and brave,
Who, like thee, fell in freedom's cause,
The nation's life to save.

Thy name shall live while time endures,
And men shall say of thee,
"He saved his country from its foes,
And bade the slave be free."

These deeds shall be thy monument,
Better than brass or stone;
They leave thy fame in glory's light,
Unrival'd and alone.

This consecrated spot shall be
To freedom ever dear;
And freedom's sons of every race
Shall weep and worship here.

O God! before whom we, in tears,
Our fallen chief deplore,
Grant that the cause for which he died
May live forevermore.

Harriet McEwen Kimball, born at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, November, 1834. Educated there; specially known as a religious poet, although she has written much secular verse; chief founder of the Portsmouth Cottage Hospital. Author hymns, _Swallow Flights_; _Blessed Company of All Faithful People_; _Poems_ (complete edition), 1889.

REST, REST FOR HIM

Rest, rest for him whose noble work is done;
For him who led us gently, unaware,
Till we were readier to do and dare
For Freedom, and her hundred fields were won.

His march is ended where his march began;
More sweet his sleep for toil and sacrifice,
And that rare wisdom whose beginning lies
In fear of God, and charity for man;

And sweetest for the tender faith that grew
More strong in trial, and through doubt more clear,
Seeing in clouds and darkness One appear
In whose dread name the Nation's sword he drew.

Rest, rest for him; and rest for us today
Whose sorrow shook the land from east to west
When slain by treason on the Nation's breast
Her martyr breathed his steadfast soul away.

This car bore the remains of the Martyr President to his home in Springfield, Illinois, where they were laid to rest. The funeral train left Washington, D. C., on the 21st of April, 1865, proceeded from that city to Baltimore, Maryland; Harrisburg and Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; New York City, Albany and Buffalo, New York; Cleveland and Columbus, Ohio; Indianapolis, Indiana; Chicago, Illinois; and finally to Springfield, reaching the latter place May 3, where the last sad rites were performed on the succeeding day. The body lay in state in all the above cities, brief stops being also made in many smaller places.

Richard Henry Stoddard in the following Horatian Ode made a beautiful analysis of the Martyr President's character, with a magnificent picture of the nation's tribute of mourning for its dead chief:

THE FUNERAL CAR OF LINCOLN

Peace! Let the long procession come,
For, hark!--the mournful, muffled drum--
The trumpet's wail afar--
And, see! the awful car!

Peace! let the sad procession go,
While cannon boom, and bells toll slow:
And go, thou sacred car,
Bearing our Woe afar!

Go, darkly borne, from State to State,
Whose loyal, sorrowing cities wait
To honor all they can
The dust of that good man!

Go, grandly borne, with such a train
As greatest kings might die to gain;
The Just, the Wise, the Brave
Attend thee to the grave!

And you the soldiers of our wars,
Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars,
Salute him once again,
Your late Commander--slain!

Yes, let your tears, indignant, fall,
And leave your muskets on the wall;
Your country needs you now
Beside the forge, the plow!

(When Justice shall unsheathe her brand--
If Mercy may not stay her hand,
Nor would we have it so--
She must direct the blow!)

So, sweetly, sadly, sternly goes
The Fallen to his last repose;
Beneath no mighty dome,
But in his modest Home!

The churchyard where his children rest,
The quiet spot that suits him best;
There shall his grave be made,
And there his bones be laid!

And there his countrymen shall come,
With memory proud, with pity dumb,
And strangers far and near,
For many and many a year!

For many a year, and many an age,
With History on her ample page
The virtues shall enroll
Of that Paternal Soul.

William Cullen Bryant, born in Cummington, Massachusetts, November 3, 1794. Died in New York, June 12, 1878. He wrote verses in his twelfth year to be recited at school. Spent two years at Williams College and at the age of eighteen began the study of law. He depended upon his profession for a number of years, although it was not to his liking. His contributions to the _North American Review_ and his poems published therein gained him an enviable reputation, and reflected great credit upon him.

THE DEATH OF LINCOLN

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 hushes all,
And speak the anguish of a land
That shook with horror at thy fall.

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

Pure was thy life; its bloody close
Hath placed thee with the sons of light
Among the noble host of those
Who perished in the cause of right.