Part 20

LINCOLN'S GRAVE

BY MAURICE THOMPSON

May one who fought in honor for the South Uncovered stand and sing by Lincoln's grave? Why, if I shrunk not at the cannon's mouth, Nor swerved one inch for any battle-wave, Should I now tremble in this quiet close Hearing the prairie wind go lightly by From billowy plains of grass and miles of corn, While out of deep repose The great sweet spirit lifts itself on high And broods above our land this summer morn?

Meseems I feel his presence. Is he dead? Death is a word. He lives and grander grows. At Gettysburg he bows his bleeding head; He spreads his arms where Chickamauga flows, As if to clasp old soldiers to his breast, Of South or North no matter which they be, Not thinking of what uniform they wore, His heart a palimpsest, Record on record of humanity, Where love is first and last forevermore.

He was the Southern mother leaning forth, At dead of night to hear the cannon roar, Beseeching God 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 space 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 passed as martyrs pass. 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 pass away, but freedom does not pass, Thrones crumble, but man's birthright crumbles not, And, like the wind across the prairie grass, 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 pass to place itself among the greatest in the family of nations. His fame will grow brighter as time passes 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 passion 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 rectitude 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 God.

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.