ABRAHAM LINCOLN

I

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.

LINCOLN1

BY EDNA DEAN PROCTOR

Now must the storied Potomac
Laurels for ever divide,

Now to the Sangamon fameless
Give of its century's pride.

1 By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Company.

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!

WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOORYARD BLOOM'D1

BY WALT WHITMAN

I

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.

II

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.

1 By permission of David McKay.

III

In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash'd palings,

Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heartshaped 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.

IV

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).

V

Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities, Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately