The Poets' Lincoln Part 26

O'ermastered by the irony of fate, The last and greatest martyr of his cause; Slain like Achilles at the Scaean gate, He saw the end, and fixed "the purer laws."

May these endure and, as his work, attest The glory of his honest heart and hand-- The simplest, and the bravest, and the best-- The Moses and the Cromwell of his land.

Too late the pioneers of modern spite, Awe-stricken by the universal gloom, See his name l.u.s.trous in Death's sable night, And offer tardy tribute at his tomb.

But we who have been with him all the while, Who knew his worth, and loved him long ago, Rejoice that in the circuit of our isle There is at last no room for Lincoln's foe.

[Ill.u.s.tration: LINCOLN AND CABINET

"The First Reading of the Emanc.i.p.ation Proclamation."

Painted by Frank B. Carpenter.

From left to right--Edwin M. Stanton, Secretary of War; Salmon P. Chase, Secretary of the Treasury; President Lincoln; Gideon Welles, Secretary of the Navy; William H. Seward, Secretary of State; J. P. Usher, Secretary of the Interior; Montgomery Blair, Postmaster-General; Edward Bates, Attorney-General]

Christopher Pea.r.s.e Cranch, born in Alexandria, Virginia, March 8, 1813. Graduated at the school of Divinity, Cambridge, Ma.s.sachusetts, in 1835, but retired from the ministry in 1842 to devote himself to art. He studied in Italy in 1846-8, and lived and painted in 1853-63, and, returning to New York, was elected a member of the National Academy in 1864. He was a graceful writer of both prose and verse.

LINCOLN

But yesterday--the exulting nation's shout Swelled on the breeze of victory through our streets, But yesterday--our banners flaunted out Like flowers the south wind woos from their retreats; Flowers of the nation, blue, and white, and red, Waving from balcony, and spire, and mast; Which told us that war's wintry storm had fled, And spring was more than spring to us at last.

Today the nation's heart lies crushed and weak; Drooping and draped in black our banners stand.

Too stunned to cry revenge, we scarce may speak The grief that chokes all utterance through the land.

G.o.d is in all. With tears our eyes are dim, Yet strive through darkness to look to Him!

No, not in vain he died--not all in vain, Our good, great President! This people's hands Are linked together in one mighty chain Drawn tighter still in triple-woven bands To crush the fiends in human masks, whose might We suffer, oh, too long! No league, nor truce Save men with men! The devils we must fight With fire! G.o.d wills it in this deed. This use We draw from the most impious murder done Since Calvary. Rise then, O Countrymen!

Scatter these marsh-lights hopes of Union won Through pardoning clemency. Strike, strike again!

Draw closer round the foe a girdling flame.

We are stabbed whene'er we spare--strike in G.o.d's name!

[Ill.u.s.tration: STATUE OF LINCOLN

Fairmount Park, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Randolph Rogers, sculptor. Unveiled November 26, 1869]

George Henry Boker, born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, on the 6th day of October, 1823. Graduated at Princeton in 1842, and afterward studied law. In the year 1847, after his return from an extended tour in Europe, he published _The Lessons of Life and Other Poems_. He also produced a number of plays which were successfully produced upon the stage, both in England and America. During the War of the Rebellion he wrote a number of patriotic lyrics, collected and published in a volume under the t.i.tle of _Poems of the War_. He has also written other poems and articles in prose which have received high praise.

In the year 1871 he was appointed by President Grant as our United States Minister to Turkey, but in 1875 was transferred to the more important Mission of Russia.

LINCOLN

Crown we our heroes with a holier wreath Than man e'er wore upon this side of death; Mix with their laurels deathless asphodels, And chime their paeans from the sacred bells!

Nor in your praises forget the martyred Chief, Fallen for the gospel of your own belief, Who, ere he mounted to the people's throne, Asked for your prayers, and joined in them his own.

I knew the man. I see him, as he stands With gifts of mercy in his outstretched hands; A kindly light within his gentle eyes, Sad as the toil in which his heart grew wise; His lips half parted with the constant smile That kindled truth, but foiled the deepest guile; His head bent forward, and his willing ear Divinely patient right and wrong to hear: Great in his goodness, humble in his state, Firm in his purpose, yet not pa.s.sionate, He led his people with a tender hand, And won by love a sway beyond command.

Summoned by lot to mitigate a time Frenzied with rage, unscrupulous with crime, He bore his mission with so meek a heart That Heaven itself took up his people's part; And when he faltered, helped him ere he fell, Eking his efforts out by miracle.

No king this man, by grace of G.o.d's intent; No, something better, freeman,--President!

A nature modeled on a higher plan, Lord of himself, an inborn gentleman!

[Ill.u.s.tration: ABRAHAM LINCOLN

Photo by Brady, 1864]

Phoebe Cary was born near Cincinnati, Ohio, September 24, 1824. Her advantages for education were somewhat better than those of her sister Alice, whose almost inseparable companion she became at an early age.

They were quite different, however, in temperament, in person and in mental const.i.tution. Phoebe began to write verse at the age of seventeen years, and one of her earliest poems, _Nearer Home_, beginning with "One sweetly solemn thought," won her a world-wide reputation. In the joint housekeeping in New York she took from choice (Alice being for many years an invalid) the larger share of duties upon herself, and hence found little opportunity for literary work.

In society, however, she was brilliant, but at all times kindly. She wrote a touching tribute to her sister's memory, published in the _Ladies' Repository_ a few days before her own death, which occurred at Newport, R. I., July 31, 1871. In the volume of _Poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary_ (Philadelphia, 1850) but about one-third were written by Phoebe. Her independently published books are _Poems and Parodies_ (1854), and _Poems of Faith, Hope and Love_ (1868).

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

Our sun hath gone down at the noonday, The heavens are black; And over the morning the shadows Of night-time are back.

Stop the proud boasting mouth of the cannon, Hush the mirth and the shout; G.o.d is G.o.d! and the ways of Jehovah Are past finding out.

Lo! the beautiful feet on the mountains, That yesterday stood; The white feet that came with glad tidings Are dabbled in blood.

The Nation that firmly was settling The crown on her head, Sits, like Rizpah, in sackcloth and ashes, And watches her dead.

Who is dead? who, unmoved by our wailing Is lying so low?

O, my Land, stricken dumb in your anguish, Do you feel, do you know?

Once this good man we mourn, overwearied, Worn, anxious, oppressed, Was going out from his audience chamber For a season to rest;

Unheeding the thousands who waited To honor and greet, When the cry of a child smote upon him And turned back his feet.

"Three days hath a woman been waiting,"

Said they, "patient and meek."

And he answered, "Whatever her errand, Let me hear; let her speak!"

So she came, and stood trembling before him And pleaded her cause; Told him all; how her child's erring father Had broken the laws.