Abraham Lincoln | Page 2

Place.
With such a homely face,--
Such rustic manners,--speech uncouth,--
(That somehow blundered
out the Truth!)
Untried, untrained to bear
The more than kingly Care?
Ay! And his genius put to scorn
The proudest in the purple born,
Whose wisdom never grew
To what, untaught, he knew--
The People, of whom he was one.
No gentleman like Washington,--
(Whose bones, methinks, make room,
To have him in their tomb!)
A laboring man, with horny hands,
Who swung the axe, who tilled
his lands,
Who shrank from nothing new,
But did as poor men do!
One of the People! Born to be
Their curious Epitome;
To share, yet rise above
Their shifting hate and love.
Common his mind (it seemed so then),
His thoughts the thoughts of
other men:
Plain were his words, and poor--
But now they will endure!
No hasty fool, of stubborn will,
But prudent, cautious, pliant, still;

Who, since his work was good,
Would do it, as he could.
Doubting, was not ashamed to doubt,
And, lacking prescience, went
without:
Often appeared to halt,
And was, of course, at fault:
Heard all opinions, nothing loth,
And loving both sides, angered both:
Was--_not_ like Justice, blind,
But watchful, clement, kind.
No hero, this, of Roman mould;
Nor like our stately sires of old:
Perhaps he was not Great--
But he preserved the State!
O honest face, which all men knew!
O tender heart, but known to
few!
O Wonder of the Age,
Cut off by tragic Rage!
Peace! Let the long procession come,
For hark!--the mournful,
muffled drum--
The trumpet's wail afar,--
And see! the awful Car!
Peace! Let the sad procession go,
While cannon boom, and bells toll
slow:
And go, thou sacred Car,
Bearing our Woe afar!
Go, darkly borne, from State to State,
Whose loyal, sorrowing Cities
wait
To honor all they can
The dust of that Good Man!
Go, grandly borne, with such a train
As greatest kings might die to
gain:

The Just, the Wise, the Brave
Attend thee to the grave!
And you, the soldiers of our wars,
Bronzed veterans, grim with noble
scars,
Salute him once again,
Your late Commander--slain!
Yes, let your tears, indignant, fall,
But leave your muskets on the
wall:
Your Country needs you now
Beside the forge, the plough!
(When Justice shall unsheathe her brand,--
If Mercy may not stay her
hand,
Nor would we have it so--
_She_ must direct the blow!)
And you, amid the Master-Race,
Who seem so strangely out of place,
Know ye who cometh? He
Who hath declared ye Free!
Bow while the Body passes--Nay,
Fall on your knees, and weep, and
pray!
Weep, weep--I would ye might--
Your poor, black faces white!
And, Children, you must come in bands,
With garlands in your little
hands,
Of blue, and white, and red,
To strew before the Dead!
So, sweetly, sadly, sternly goes
The Fallen to his last repose:
Beneath no mighty dome,
But in his modest Home;
The churchyard where his children rest,
The quiet spot that suits him
best:

There shall his grave be made,
And there his bones be laid!
And there his countrymen shall come,
With memory proud, with pity
dumb,
And strangers far and near,
For many and many a year!
For many a year, and many an Age,
While History on her ample page
The virtues shall enroll
Of that Paternal Soul!
End of Project Gutenberg's Abraham Lincoln., by Richard Henry
Stoddard
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