Our American Holidays: Lincoln's Birthday Part 12

He was the Southern mother leaning forth, At dead of night to hear the cannon roar, Beseeching G.o.d to turn the cruel North And break it that her son might come once more; He was New England's maiden pale and pure, Whose gallant lover fell on Shiloh's plain; He was the mangled body of the dead; He writhing did endure Wounds and disfigurement and racking pain, Gangrene and amputation, all things dread.

He was the North, the South, the East, the West, The thrall, the master, all of us in one; There was no section that he held the best; His love shone as impartial as the sun; And so revenge appealed to him in vain; He smiled at it, as at a thing forlorn, And gently put it from him, rose and stood A moment's s.p.a.ce in pain, Remembering the prairies and the corn And the glad voices of the field and wood.

And then when Peace set wing upon the wind And northward flying fanned the clouds away, He pa.s.sed as martyrs pa.s.s. Ah, who shall find The chord to sound the pathos of that day!

Mid-April blowing sweet across the land, New bloom of freedom opening to the world, Loud paeans of the homeward-looking host, The salutations grand From grimy guns, the tattered flags unfurled; And he must sleep to all the glory lost!

Sleep! loss! But there is neither sleep nor loss, And all the glory mantles him about; Above his breast the precious banners cross, Does he not hear his armies tramp and shout?

Oh, every kiss of mother, wife or maid Dashed on the grizzly lip of veteran, Comes forthright to that calm and quiet mouth, And will not be delayed, And every slave, no longer slave but man, Sends up a blessing from the broken South.

He is not dead, France knows he is not dead; He stirs strong hearts in Spain and Germany, In far Siberian mines his words are said, He tells the English Ireland shall be free, He calls poor serfs about him in the night, And whispers of a power that laughs at kings, And of a force that breaks the strongest chain; Old tyranny feels his might Tearing away its deepest fastenings, And jewelled sceptres threaten him in vain.

Years pa.s.s away, but freedom does not pa.s.s, Thrones crumble, but man's birthright crumbles not, And, like the wind across the prairie gra.s.s, A whole world's aspirations fan this spot With ceaseless panting after liberty, One breath of which would make dark Russia fair, And blow sweet summer through the exile's cave And set the exile free; For which I pray, here in the open air Of Freedom's morning-tide, by Lincoln's grave.

TRIBUTES TO LINCOLN

A man of great ability, pure patriotism, unselfish nature, full of forgiveness to his enemies, bearing malice toward none, he proved to be the man above all others for the struggle through which the nation had to pa.s.s to place itself among the greatest in the family of nations. His fame will grow brighter as time pa.s.ses and his great great work is better understood.

_U. S. Grant._

At the moment when the stars of the Union, sparkling and resplendent with the golden fires of liberty, are waving over the subdued walls of Richmond the sepulchre opens, and the strong, the powerful enters it.

_Sr. Rebello Da Silva._

He ascended the mount where he could see the fair fields and the smiling vineyards of the promised land. But, like the great leader of Israel, he was not permitted to come to the possession.

_Seth Sweetser._

In his freedom from pa.s.sion and bitterness; in his acute sense of justice; in his courageous faith in the right, and his inextinguishable hatred of wrong; in his warm and heartfelt sympathy and mercy; in his coolness of judgment; in his unquestioned rect.i.tude of intention--in a word, in his ability to lift himself for his country's sake above all mere partisanship, in all the marked traits of his character combined, he has had no parallel since Washington, and while our republic endures he will live with him in the grateful hearts of his grateful countrymen.

_Schuyler Colfax._

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

BY HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL

Dead is the roll of the drums, And the distant thunders die, They fade in the far-off sky; And a lovely summer comes, Like the smile of Him on high.

Lulled, the storm and the onset.

Earth lies in a sunny swoon; Stiller splendor of noon, Softer glory of sunset, Milder starlight and moon!

For the kindly Seasons love us; They smile over trench and clod (Where we left the bravest of us)-- There's a brighter green of the sod, And a holier calm above us In the blessed Blue of G.o.d.

The roar and ravage were vain; And Nature, that never yields, Is busy with sun and rain At her old sweet work again On the lonely battle-fields.

How the tall white daisies grow, Where the grim artillery rolled!

(Was it only a moon ago?

It seems a century old)--

And the bee hums in the clover, As the pleasant June comes on; Aye, the wars are all over,-- But our good Father is gone.

There was tumbling of traitor fort, Flaming of traitor fleet-- Lighting of city and port, Clasping in square and street.

There was thunder of mine and gun, Cheering by mast and tent,-- When--his dread work all done, And his high fame full won-- Died the Good President.

In his quiet chair he sate, Pure of malice or guile, Stainless of fear or hate,-- And there played a pleasant smile On the rough and careworn face; For his heart was all the while On means of mercy and grace.

The brave old Flag drooped o'er him, (A fold in the hard hand lay)-- He looked, perchance, on the play-- But the scene was a shadow before him, For his thoughts were far away.

'Twas but the morn (yon fearful Death-shade, gloomy and vast, Lifting slowly at last), His household heard him say, "'Tis long since I've been so cheerful, So light of heart as to-day."

'Twas dying, the long dread clang-- But, or ever the blessed ray Of peace could brighten to-day, Murder stood by the way-- Treason struck home his fang!

One throb--and, without a pang, That pure soul pa.s.sed away.

Kindly Spirit!--Ah, when did treason Bid such a generous nature cease, Mild by temper and strong by reason, But ever leaning to love and peace?

A head how sober; a heart how s.p.a.cious; A manner equal with high or low; Rough but gentle, uncouth but gracious, And still inclining to lips of woe.

Patient when saddest, calm when sternest, Grieved when rigid for justice' sake; Given to jest, yet ever in earnest If aught of right or truth were at stake.

Simple of heart, yet shrewd therewith, Slow to resolve, but firm to hold; Still with parable and with myth Seasoning truth, like Them of old; Aptest humor and quaintest pith!

(Still we smile o'er the tales he told.)

Yet whoso might pierce the guise Of mirth in the man we mourn, Would mark, and with grieved surprise, All the great soul had borne, In the piteous lines, and the kind, sad eyes So dreadfully wearied and worn.

And we trusted (the last dread page Once turned, of our Dooms-day Scroll), To have seen him, sunny of soul, In a cheery, grand old age.

But, Father, 'tis well with thee!

And since ever, when G.o.d draws nigh, Some grief for the good must be, 'Twas well, even so to die,--

'Mid the thunder of Treason's fall, The yielding of haughty town, The crashing of cruel wall, The trembling of tyrant crown!

The ringing of hearth and pavement To the clash of falling chains,-- The centuries of enslavement Dead, with their blood-bought gains!

And through trouble weary and long, Well hadst thou seen the way, Leaving the State so strong It did not reel for a day.

And even in death couldst give A token for Freedom's strife-- A proof how republics live, And not by a single life,

But the Right Divine of man, And the many, trained to be free,-- And none, since the world began, Ever was mourned like thee.

Dost thou feel it, O n.o.ble Heart!

(So grieved and so wronged below), From the rest wherein thou art?

Do they see it, those patient eyes?

Is there heed in the happy skies For tokens of world-wide woe?