The Poets' Lincoln Part 23

Hush the roll of the drum, hush the cannon's loud roar, He will guide us to peace through the battle no more; But new freedom shall dawn from the place of his rest, Where the star has gone down in the beautiful West.

Tread lightly, breathe softly, and gratefully bring To the sod that enfolds him the first flowers of spring; They will tenderly treasure the tears that we weep O'er the grave of our chief--let the President sleep.

Let the President sleep--tears will hallow the ground, Where we raise o'er his ashes the sheltering mound, And his spirit will sometimes return from above, There to mingle with ours in ineffable love.

Peace to thee, n.o.ble dead, thou hast battled for right, And hast won high reward from the Father of Light; Peace to thee, martyr-hero, and sweet be thy rest, Where the sunlight fades out in the beautiful West.

Tread lightly, breathe softly, and gratefully bring To the sod that enfolds him the first flowers of spring; They will tenderly treasure the tears that we weep O'er the grave of our chief--let the President sleep!

[Ill.u.s.tration: FACADE OF PUBLIC VAULT

Oak Ridge Cemetery, Springfield, Illinois, in which the body of Lincoln was placed, May 4, 1865]

James Mackay, born in New York, April 8, 1872. Author of _The Economy of Happiness_, _The Politics of Utility_, and of various lectures on Scientific Ethics, etc.

THE CENOTAPH OF LINCOLN

And so they buried Lincoln? Strange and vain Has any creature thought of Lincoln hid In any vault 'neath any coffin lid, In all the years since that wild spring of pain?

'Tis false--he never in the grave hath lain.

You could not bury him although you slid Upon his clay the Cheops Pyramid, Or heaped it with the Rocky Mountain chain.

They slew themselves;--they but set Lincoln free.

In all the earth his great heart beats as strong, Shall beat while pulses throb to chivalry, And burn with hate of tyranny and wrong.

Whoever will may find him, anywhere Save in the tomb. Not there--he is not there.

[Ill.u.s.tration: LINCOLN MONUMENT

Springfield, Illinois, Larken G. Mead, Architect]

A movement was started shortly after the burial of Lincoln to raise funds sufficient to build a monument over his grave. Contributions were made by various States and societies, and about sixty thousand Sunday-school scholars contributed the sum of eighteen thousand dollars. Ground was broken on the 9th of September, 1869, and the monument was dedicated on the 15th of October, 1874, at a total cost of two hundred and thirty thousand dollars.

James Judson Lord, born at Berwick, Maine, in 1821. He had the advantage of an excellent early education followed by years of research. During his preparatory studies at Cambridge he met Longfellow, who loaned him books from his own library. For a time he studied art under prominent masters, but his health failing, after a time of forced leisure he went into the mercantile business in Boston, which vocation he afterward followed. In 1851 he went to Illinois; finally, after his marriage, settling in Springfield. There he knew Mr. Lincoln, with whom he was on terms of closest friendship.

The poem submitted by Mr. Lord was selected for reading at the dedication of the National Lincoln Monument in a compet.i.tion which brought contributions from many leading poets.

He was the author of several dramas, and from time to time contributed poems to leading magazines and newspapers of the country. He died January 3, 1905.

DEDICATION POEM

_Read by Richard Edwards, LL.D., President Illinois State Normal University at Bloomington, Illinois_

We build not here a temple or a shrine, Nor hero-fane to demiG.o.ds divine; Nor to the clouds a superstructure rear For man's ambition or for servile fear.

Not to the Dust, but to the Deeds alone A grateful people raise th' historic stone; For where a patriot lived, or hero fell, The daisied turf would mark the spot as well.

What though the Pyramids, with apex high, Like Alpine peaks cleave Egypt's rainless sky, And cast grim shadows o'er a desert land Forever blighted by oppression's hand?

No patriot zeal their deep foundations laid-- No freeman's hand their darken'd chambers made-- No public weal inspired the heart with love, To see their summits towering high above.

The ruling Pharaoh, proud and gory-stained, With vain ambitions never yet attained;-- With brow enclouded as his marble throne, And heart unyielding as the building stone;-- Sought with the scourge to make mankind his slaves, And heaven's free sunlight darker than their graves.

His but to will, and theirs to yield and feel, Like vermin'd dust beneath his iron heel;-- Denies all mercy, and all right offends, Till on his head th' avenging Plague descends.

Historic justice bids the nations know That through each land of slaves a Nile of blood shall flow: And Vendome Columns, on a people thrust, Are, by the people, level'd with the dust.

Nor stone, nor bronze, can fit memorials yield For deeds of valor on the b.l.o.o.d.y field, 'Neath war's dark clouds the st.u.r.dy volunteer, By freedom taught his country to revere, Bids home and friends a hasty, sad adieu, And treads where dangers all his steps pursue; Finds cold and famine on his dauntless way, And with mute patience brooks the long delay, Or hears the trumpet, or the thrilling drum Peal the long roll that calls: "They come! they come!"

Then to the front with battling hosts he flies, And lives to triumph, or for freedom dies.

Thund'ring amain along the rocky strand, The Ocean claims her honors with the Land.

Loud on the gale she chimes the wild refrain, Or with low murmur wails her heroes slain!

In gory hulks, with splinter'd mast and spar, Rocks on her stormy breast the valiant Tar:-- Lash'd to the mast he gives the high command, Or midst the fight, sinks with the _c.u.mberland_.

Beloved banner of the azure sky, Thy rightful home where'er thy eagles fly; On thy blue field the stars of heav'n descend, And to our day a purer l.u.s.ter lend.

O, Righteous G.o.d! who guard'st the right alway, And bade Thy peace to come, "and come to stay": And while war's deluge fill'd the land with blood, With bow of promise arch'd the crimson flood,-- From fratricidal strife our banner screen, And let it float henceforth in skies serene.

Yet cunning art shall here her triumphs bring, And laurel'd bards their choicest anthems sing.

Here, honor'd age shall bare its wintery brow, And youth to freedom make a Spartan vow.

Here, ripened manhood from its walks profound, Shall come and halt, as if on hallow'd ground.

Here shall the urn with fragrant wreaths be drest, By tender hands the flow'ry tributes prest; And wending westward, from oppressions far, Shall pilgrims come, led by our freedom-star; While bending lowly, as o'er friendly pall, The silent tear from ebon cheeks shall fall.

Sterile and vain the tributes which we pay-- It is the Past that consecrates today The spot where rests one of the n.o.ble few Who saw the right, and dared the right to do.

True to himself and to his fellow men, With patient hand he moved the potent pen, Whose inky stream did, like the Red Sea's flow, Such bondage break and such a host o'erthrow!

The simple parchment on its fleeting page Bespeaks the import of the better age,-- When man, for man, no more shall forge the chain, Nor armies tread the sh.o.r.e, nor navies plow the main.

Then shall this boon to human freedom given Be fitly deem'd a sacred gift of heaven;-- Though of the earth, it is no less divine,-- Founded on truth it will forever shine, Reflecting rays from heaven's unchanging plan-- The law of right and brotherhood of man.

Edna Dean Proctor, born in Henniker, New Hampshire, October 10, 1838.

She received her early education in Concord and subsequently removed to Brooklyn, New York. She contributed largely to magazine literature and has traveled extensively abroad. Of all her poems _By the Shenandoah_ is probably the most popular.

THE GRAVE OF LINCOLN

Now must the storied Potomac Laurels forever divide; Now to the Sangamon fameless Give of its century's pride.

Sangamon, stream of the prairies, Placidly westward that flows, Far in whose city of silence Calm he has sought his repose.

Over our Washington's river Sunrise beams rosy and fair; Sunset on Sangamon fairer,-- Father and martyr lies there.

Break into blossom, O prairie!

Snowy and golden and red; Peers of the Palestine lilies Heap for your Glorious Dead!

Roses as fair as of Sharon, Branches as stately as palm, Odors as rich as the spices-- Ca.s.sia and aloes and balm-- Mary the loved and Salome, All with a gracious accord, Ere the first glow of the morning Brought to the tomb of the Lord.