Part 28

Lincoln, the man who freed the slave; Lincoln whom never self enticed; Slain Lincoln, worthy found to die A soldier of his captain Christ.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

This man whose homely face you look upon, Was one of Nature's masterful, great men; Born with strong arms, that unfought battles won, Direct of speech, and cunning with the pen. Chosen for large designs, he had the art Of winning with his humor, and he went Straight to his mark, which was the human heart; Wise, too, for what he could not break he bent. Upon his back a more than Atlas-load, The burden of the Commonwealth, was laid; He stooped, and rose up to it, though the road Shot suddenly downwards, not a whit dismayed. Hold, warriors, councillors, kings! All now give place To this dead Benefactor of the race!

Richard Henry Stoddard.

LINCOLN

BY EDNA DEAN PROCTOR

Now must the storied Potomac Laurels for ever 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.

Kings under pyramids slumber, Sealed in the Lybian sands; Princes in gorgeous cathedrals Decked with the spoil of the lands Kinglier, princelier sleeps he Couched 'mid the prairies serene, Only the turf and the willow Him and God's heaven between! Temple nor column to cumber Verdure and bloom of the sod-- So, in the vale by Beth-peor, Moses was buried of God.

Break into blossom, O prairies! 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-- Cassia 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

Wind of the West! breathe around him Soft as the saddened air's sigh When to the summit of Pisgah Moses had journeyed to die. Clear as its anthem that floated Wide o'er the Moabite plain, Low with the wail of the people Blending its burdened refrain. Rarer, O Wind! and diviner,-- Sweet as the breeze that went by When, over Olivet's mountain, Jesus was lost in the sky.

Not for thy sheaves nor savannas Crown we thee, proud Illinois! Here in his grave is thy grandeur; Born of his sorrow thy joy. Only the tomb by Mount Zion Hewn for the Lord do we hold Dearer than his in thy prairies, Girdled with harvests of gold. Still for the world, through the ages Wreathing with glory his brow, He shall be Liberty's Saviour-- Freedom's Jerusalem thou!

By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Company.

WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOORYARD BLOOM'D

BY WALT WHITMAN

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd, And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night, I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring, Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west, And thought of him I love.

O powerful western fallen star! O shades of night--O moody, tearful night! O great star disappear'd--O the black murk that hides the star! O cruel hands that hold me powerless--O helpless soul of me! O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul.

III

In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash'd palings, Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green, With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love,

With every leaf a miracle--and from this bush in the dooryard, With delicate-color'd blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green, A sprig with its flower I break.

In the swamp in secluded recesses, A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song. Solitary the thrush, The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements, Sings by himself a song.

Song of the bleeding throat, Death's outlet song of life (for well, dear brother, I know, If thou wast not granted to sing thou would'st surely die).

Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities, Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peep'd from the ground, spotting the gray debris, Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass. Passing the yellow-spear'd wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprisen, Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards, Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave, Night and day journeys a coffin.

Coffin that passes through lanes and streets, Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land, With the pomp of the inloop'd flags with the cities draped in black, With the show of the States themselves as of crape-veil'd women standing, With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night, With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads, With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces, With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn, With all the mournful voices of the dirges pour'd around the coffin, The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs--where amid these you journey, With the tolling, tolling bells' perpetual clang, Here, coffin that slowly passes, I give you my sprig of lilac.

VII

(Nor for you, for one alone, Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring, For fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you, O sane and sacred death.

All over bouquets of roses, O death, I cover you over with roses and early lilies, But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first. Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes, With loaded arms I come, pouring for you, For you and the coffins all of you, O death).