LINCOLN AT SPRINGFIELD, 1861

"My friends,—elected by your choice, From the long-cherished home I go, Endeared by Heaven-permitted joys, Sacred by Heaven-permitted woe, I go, to take the helm of State, While loud the waves of faction roar, And by His aid, supremely great, Upon whose will all tempests wait, I hope to steer the bark to shore. Not since the days when Washington To battle led our patriots on, Have clouds so dark above us met, Have dangers dire so close beset. And he had never saved the land By deeds in human wisdom planned, But that with Christian faith he sought Guidance and blessing, where he ought. Like him, I seek for aid divine, His faith, his hope, his trust, are mine. Pray for me, friends, that God may make My judgment clear, my duty plain; For if the Lord no wardship take, The watchmen mount the towers in vain."

He ceased; and many a manly breast Panted with strong emotion's swell, And many a lip the sob suppressed, And tears from manly eyelids fell. And hats came off, and heads were bowed, As Lincoln slowly moved away; And then, heart-spoken, from the crowd, In accents earnest, clear, and loud, Came one brief sentence, "We will pray!"







On the 22nd of February, 1861, Washington's birthday, on his journey to Washington, to assume the Presidency, Mr. Lincoln raised a new flag over Independence Hall, then went inside and spoke as follows:—

"I am filled with deep emotion at finding myself standing in this place, where were collected together the wisdom, the patriotism, the devotion to principle from which sprang the institutions under which we live. You have kindly suggested to me that in my hands is the task of restoring peace to our distracted country. I can say in return, sirs, that all the political sentiments I entertain have been drawn, so far as I have been able to draw them, from the sentiments which originated in and were given to the world from this hall. I have never had a feeling, politically, that did not spring from the sentiments embodied in the Declaration of Independence. I have often pondered over the dangers which were incurred by the men who assembled here and framed and adopted that Declaration. I have pondered over the toils that were endured by the officers and soldiers of the army who achieved that independence. I have often inquired of myself what great principle or idea it was that kept this Confederacy so long together. It was not the mere matter of separation of the colonies from the motherland, but that sentiment in the Declaration of Independence which gave liberty, not alone to the people of this country, but hope to all the world, for all future time. It was that which gave promise that in due time the weight would be lifted from the shoulders of all men and that all should have an equal chance. This is the sentiment embodied in the Declaration of Independence.

"Now, my friends, can this country be saved on that basis? If it can, I will consider myself one of the happiest men in the world if I can help to save it. But if this country cannot be saved without giving up that principle, I was about to say I would rather be assassinated on this spot than surrender it."

Four years and two months later, April 22, 1865, his body lay, assassinated, on the very spot where he had made the above remarks, then being taken to Springfield, Illinois, for burial.





Henry Wilson Clendenin, born at Schellsburg, Pennsylvania, August 1, 1837; educated in private schools and by tutors. Married Mary E. Morey of Monmouth, Illinois, October 23, 1877; to them were born five children, four of whom survive: George M., manager Illinois State Register; Clarence R., Deputy Internal Revenue Collector, Springfield, Illinois; Harry F., proofreader, Illinois State Register, and Marie, Assistant Instructor Physical Education, State Normal University, Normal, Illinois. He was a private of Company I, Twentieth Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry, in the Civil War. Began newspaper work on Burlington (Iowa) Hawkeye. Afterwards telegraph editor Peoria Transcript, 1858; telegraph editor Burlington Gazette, 1863, and editor and proprietor, Keokuk Daily Constitution, 1876-1881; since that year was editor and president of the Illinois State Register. Postmaster, Springfield 1886-90. Member Illinois State Historical Society, The Jefferson Association, Grand Army of the Republic and Sons of the American Revolution. Director of Lincoln Library at Springfield, Illinois, for ten years. Member of the First Congregational Church of that city.

This sonnet was written by Mr. Clendenin, in Philadelphia, February 22, 1861, after witnessing Lincoln hoist the flag over Independence Hall.

LINCOLN CALLED TO THE PRESIDENCY

Hark to the sound that speedeth o'er the land! Behold the sword in fratricidal hand! 'Tis duty calls thee, Lincoln, and thy trust Demands that all thy acts be wise and just. No idle task to thee has been assigned, But work that's worthy of a giant mind— And on the issue hangs the nation's fame As a free people who deserve the name. So, walk thou in the way the fathers trod; Be true to freedom, country, and to God; Then truth will triumph, treason be undone, And thou be hailed the second Washington. The first, the Father of his country—thou, Its Saviour. Bind the laurel on thy brow.







An act of Congress July 9, 1790, established the District of Columbia as the National Capital, and provided that prior to the first Monday of December, 1800, the Commissioners should have finished a suitable building for the sessions of Congress. The site of the Capitol was included in L'Enfant's plan for the city. The cornerstone was laid September 18, 1793, with Masonic rites, George Washington officiating. The wings of the central building were completed in 1811, and were partially burned by the British, in 1814. The entire central building was finished in 1827. The cornerstone of the extension was laid by President Fillmore, July 4, 1851. The extensions were first occupied by Congress 1857 and 1859. Up to that time the Senate Chamber was the present Supreme Court Room, and the Hall of Representatives was the present National Statuary Hall. The dome was finished during the administration of President Lincoln. The total cost of the Capitol building and grounds was about thirty million dollars. The remains of President Lincoln were escorted from the White House to the Capitol at three o'clock P.M., on the 19th of April, 1865. The number in the procession was estimated at forty thousand, and that many more were spectators along the route. The burial service was conducted by Dr. Gurley. The special train bearing the remains left at 8 A.M., Friday, April 21, for Springfield, Illinois, stopping at Baltimore, Maryland; Harrisburg and Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; Albany and Buffalo, New York; Cleveland and Columbus, Ohio; Indianapolis, Indiana; Chicago, Illinois, reaching Springfield, Illinois, the 3d of May, and was buried the following day. The body lay in state in all of the above cities.





Edwin Markham, born at Oregon City, Oregon, April 23, 1852; settled in California in 1857, and worked there during his boyhood, principally as a blacksmith. Worked his way through the San Jose Normal School and Santa Rosa College. Became a writer of stories and verse for papers and magazines, and principal and superintendent of California schools. Was the author of The Man With the Hoe, and Other Poems (1899); The Man With the Hoe, with Notes by the Author (1900); The End of the Century (1899); Lincoln, the Great Commoner (1900); The Mighty Hundred Years; Lincoln and Other Poems (1901); The Shoes of Happiness (1915). His Man With the Hoe was extensively republished and gave him wide fame.

LINCOLN THE MAN OF THE PEOPLE

When the Norn-Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour, Greatening and darkening as it hurried on, She bent the strenuous Heavens and came down To make a man to meet the mortal need. She took the tried clay of the common road— Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth, Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy; Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff. It was a stuff to wear for centuries, A man that matched the mountains, and compelled The stars to look our way and honor us.

The color of the ground was in him, the red earth; The tang and odor of the primal things— The rectitude and patience of the rocks; The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn; The courage of the bird that dares the sea; The justice of the rain that loves all leaves; The pity of snow that hides all scars; The loving-kindness of the wayside well; The tolerance and equity of light That gives as freely to the shrinking weed As to the great oak flaring to the wind— To the grave's low hill as to the Matterhorn That shoulders out the sky.

And so he came. From prairie cabin up to Capitol, One fair ideal led our chieftain on. Forevermore he burned to do his deed With the fine stroke and gesture of a king. He built the rail pile as he built the State, Pouring his splendid strength through every blow, The conscience of him testing every stroke, To make his deed the measure of a man.

So came the Captain with the mighty heart; And when the step of earthquake shook the house, Wresting the rafters from their ancient hold, He held the ridge-pole up and spiked again The rafters of the Home. He held his place— Held the long purpose like a growing tree— Held on through blame and faltered not at praise, And when he fell, in whirlwind, he went down As when a kingly cedar, green with boughs, Goes down with a great shout upon the hills, And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.





The corner-stone was laid by George Washington on the 13th of October, 1792. The mansion was first occupied by President John Adams in the year 1800, also by every succeeding President. British troops burned it in 1814, in President Madison's term. It was the first public building erected in Washington. It is constructed of Virginia freestone, and is 170 feet in length, 80 feet in depth, and consists of a rustic basement, two stories and an attic.



John Vance Cheney, born Groveland, New York, December 29, 1848. Graduated Temple Hill Academy, Genesee, New York, at seventeen. Assistant principal there two years later. Practiced law, New York, 1875-6; librarian Free Public Library, San Francisco, 1887-94; Newberry Library, Chicago, 1894-1909; author, The Old Doctor, 1881; and a number of poems, 1887-1911.

LINCOLN

The hour was on us; where the man? The fateful sands unfaltering ran, And up the way of tears He came into the years.

Our pastoral captain. Forth he came, As one that answers to his name; Nor dreamed how high his charge, His work how fair and large,

To set the stones back in the wall Lest the divided house should fall, And peace from men depart, Hope and the childlike heart.

We looked on him; "'Tis he," we said, "Come crownless and unheralded, The shepherd who will keep The flocks, will fold the sheep."

Unknightly, yes: yet 'twas the mien Presaging the immortal scene, Some battles of His wars Who sealeth up the stars.

Not he would take the past between His hands, wipe valor's tablets clean, Commanding greatness wait Till he stands at the gate;

Not he would cramp to one small head The awful laurels of the dead, Time's mighty vintage cup, And drink all honor up.

No flutter of the banners bold Borne by the lusty sons of old, The haughty conquerors Set forward to their wars;

Not his their blare, their pageantries, Their goal, their glory, was not his; Humbly he came to keep The flocks, to fold the sheep.

The need comes not without the man; The prescient hours unceasing ran, And up the way of tears He came into the years.

Our pastoral captain, skilled to crook The spear into the pruning hook, The simple, kindly man, Lincoln, American.





President Lincoln and family attended this church during his Administration. The pew that they occupied is still preserved in its black walnut trimmings, though the rest of the sanctuary has been refurnished.



Lyman Whitney Allen, born at St. Louis, November 19, 1854. Bachelor of Arts, Washington University, St. Louis, 1878; later Master of Arts, Princeton Theological, 1878-80; Post-graduate studies at Princeton University; (D.D., University of Wooster, 1897). Ordained Presbyterian Minister, 1882; stated supply Kimmswick, Missouri, 1881-3; DeSoto, Missouri, 1883-5; Pastor-elect Carondelet Church, St. Louis, Missouri, 1885-9; Pastor South Park Church, Newark, New Jersey, since 1889. Director Board of Home Missions, Presbyterian; Chaplain New Jersey Society D. A. R.; Member Society American Authors; New Jersey Society S. A. R. Club, Princeton (New York). Has written many poems and articles, including the New York Herald's $1,000 prize poem which was published in 1895.

Rev. Dr. Lyman Whitney Allen of Newark, New Jersey, had for his guest Chief Justice Wendell Phillips Stafford of the Supreme Court of the District of Columbia. Judge Stafford addressed the Men's Club of Dr. Allen's church one evening, and next day, in company with his host, visited the Lincoln statue on the court-house plaza. On the train that bore him back to Washington that day, Judge Stafford wrote the poem on the Statue. (See page 236).

A few weeks thereafter Dr. Allen visited his friend, the judge, in Washington, and they made a little pilgrimage to the New York Avenue Presbyterian church. In the Lincoln pew Dr. Allen sat and meditated, and on his way back he wrote the verses.

"I had seen the Lincoln statue many times," says Dr. Allen, "but, somehow, I could not get started on the poem I knew could be written around it." And Judge Stafford wrote to his friend in Newark: "I had seen the Lincoln pew a score of times without poetic result, yet you come on a one-day visit and carry away the inspiration needed."

LINCOLN'S CHURCH IN WASHINGTON

Within the historic church both eye and soul Perceived it. 'Twas the pew where Lincoln sat— The only Lincoln God hath given to men— Olden among the modern seats of prayer, Dark like the 'sixties, place and past akin. All else has changed, but this remains the same, A sanctuary in a sanctuary.

Where Lincoln prayed! What passion had his soul— Mixt faith and anguish melting into prayer Upon the burning altar of God's fane, A nation's altar even as his own.

Where Lincoln prayed! Such worshipers as he Make thin ranks down the ages. Wouldst thou know His spirit suppliant? Then must thou feel War's fiery baptism, taste hate's bitter cup, Spend similar sweat of blood vicarious, And sound the cry, "If it be possible!" From stricken heart in new Gethsemane.

Who saw him there are gone, as he is gone; The pew remains, with what God gave him there, And all the world through him. So let it be— One of the people's shrines.







John James Piatt was born in Indiana, March 1, 1835. His earliest schooling was received at Rising Sun, in Indiana. At the age of fourteen he was set to learn the printing business in the office of the Ohio State Journal at Columbus, Ohio, for a brief period, and at the age of eighteen years first began to write verses. His poems were chiefly on themes connected with his native West.

SONNET IN 1862

Stern be the Pilot in the dreadful hour When a great nation, like a ship at sea With the wroth breakers whitening at her lee, Feels her last shudder if her helmsman cower; A godlike manhood be his mighty dower! Such and so gifted, Lincoln, may'st thou be With thy high wisdom's low simplicity And awful tenderness of voted power. From our hot records then thy name shall stand On Time's calm ledger out of passionate days— With the pure debt of gratitude begun, And only paid in never-ending praise— One of the many of a mighty land, Made by God's providence the Anointed One.



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Lincoln once said: "When any church will inscribe over its altar, as its sole qualification for membership, the Saviour's condensed statement of the substance of both law and gospel, 'Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart and with all thy soul and with all thy mind, and thy neighbor as thyself', that church will I join with all my heart and all my soul."

LINCOLN, SOLDIER OF CHRIST

From Macmillan's Magazine, England

Lincoln! When men would name a man Just, unperturbed, magnanimous, Tried in the lowest seat of all, Tried in the chief seat of the house—

Lincoln! When men would name a man Who wrought the great work of his age, Who fought, and fought the noblest fight, And marshalled it from stage to stage.

Victorious, out of dusk and dark, And into dawn and on till day, Most humble when the paeans rang, Least rigid when the enemy lay

Prostrated for his feet to tread— This name of Lincoln will they name, A name revered, a name of scorn, Of scorn to sundry, not to fame.

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











Rev. Hamilton Schuyler was born in Oswego, New York, 1862, and is a son of the late Anthony Schuyler, who was for many years rector of Grace Church, Orange, New Jersey. He belongs to the well-known family of that name, being seventh in descent from Philip Peterse Schuyler, founder of the family, who came to this country from Holland and settled in Albany in 1650. He studied at Oxford University, England, and the General Theological Seminary of New York. Has held positions in Calvary Church, New York; Trinity Church, Newport, Rhode Island, and was for several years dean of the Cathedral at Davenport, Iowa, under the late Bishop Perry. He began his rectorship at Trenton in February, 1900. Has written extensively for journals and periodicals. Among the bound publications which bear his name as author are A Fisher of Men, a biography of the late Churchill Satterlee, priest and missionary, son of the first Bishop of Washington; Studies in English Church History; The Intellectual Crisis Confronting Christianity; and A History of Trinity Church, Trenton. In 1900 his poem, The Incapable, won a prize of two hundred dollars offered by the late Collis P. Huntington through the New York Sun, for the best poems antithetical to Edwin Markham's Man With the Hoe. A volume of Mr. Schuyler's verses, under the title Within the Cloister's Shadow, was published in 1914.

A CHARACTERIZATION OF LINCOLN

From Lincoln Centenary Ode

Tall, ungainly, gaunt of limb, Rudely Nature molded him. Awkward form and homely face, Owing naught to outward grace; Yet, behind the rugged mien Were a mind and soul serene, And in deep-set eyes there shone Genius that was all his own. Humor quaint with pathos blent To his speech attraction lent; Telling phrase and homely quip Falling lightly from his lip. Eloquent of tongue, and clear, Logical, devoid of fear, Making plain whate'er was dense By the light of common sense. Tender as the bravest be, Pitiful in high degree, Wrathful only where offence Led to grievous consequence; Hating sham and empty show; Chivalrous to beaten foe; Ever patient in his ways; Cheerful in the darkest days; Not a demi-god or saint Such as fancy loves to paint, But a truly human man Built on the heroic plan.





Moses Kimball, a citizen of Boston, presented to the city a duplicate of the Freedman's Memorial Statue erected in Lincoln Park, Washington, D. C., after a design by Thomas Ball. The group, which stands in Park Square, represents the figure of a slave from whose limbs the broken fetters have fallen, kneeling in gratitude at the feet of Lincoln. The verses which follow were written for the unveiling of the statue, December 9, 1879.

John Greenleaf Whittier, born December 17, 1807, in Haverhill, Massachusetts. He lived on a farm until he reached the age of eighteen, working a little at shoemaking and also writing poetry for the Haverhill Gazette. Later he became editor of a number of papers, and his poems in after life were full of patriotism and the love of human freedom, all of which attained a strong hold on the hearts of the people. He would have prevented war, if possible, with honor, but when war came he wrote in support of the Union cause, displaying no bitterness, and when the conflict was over he was most liberal and conciliatory. He was one of the most popular of poets. He died September 7, 1892.

THE EMANCIPATION GROUP

Amidst thy sacred effigies Of old renown give place, O city. Freedom-loved! to his Whose hand unchained a race.

Take the worn frame, that rested not Save in a martyr's grave; The care-lined face, that none forgot, Bent to the kneeling slave.

Let man be free! The mighty word He spoke was not his own; An impulse from the Highest stirred These chiseled lips alone.

The cloudy sign, the fiery guide, Along his pathway ran, And Nature, through his voice, denied The ownership of man.

We rest in peace where these sad eyes Saw peril, strife, and pain; His was the Nation's sacrifice, And ours the priceless gain.

O symbol of God's will on earth As it is done above Bear witness to the cost and worth Of justice and of love!

Stand in thy place and testify To coming ages long, That truth is stronger than a lie, And righteousness than wrong.







Theron Brown, born at Willimantic, Connecticut, April 29, 1832. Graduated at Hartford Theological Seminary in 1858; Newton Theological Institution, 1859. Ordained in Baptist Ministry, 1859; Pastor South Framingham, Massachusetts, 1859-62; Canton, Massachusetts, 1863-70; on staff Youth's Companion since 1870. Author various juvenile stories; Life Songs (poems), 1894; Nameless Women of the Bible, 1904; The Story of the Hymns and Tunes, 1907; Under the Mulberry Tree (a novel), 1909; The Birds of God, 1911. He died February 14, 1914.

THE LIBERATOR

When, scornful of a nation's rest, The angry horns of Discord blew There came a giant from the West, And found a giant's work to do.

He saw, in sorrow—and in wrath— A mighty empire in its strait, Torn like a planet in its path To warring hemisphere of hate.

Between the thunder-clouds he stood; He harked to Ruin's battle-drum, And cried in patriot hardihood, "Why do I wait? My hour has come!

"Was it my fate, my lot, my woe To be the Ruler of the land, Nor own my oath that long ago I swore upon this heart and hand?

"That vow, like barb from bowman's string, Shall pierce sedition's secret plea: God grant the bloodless blow shall sting Till brother's quarrels cease to be!

"Should once the sudden wound provoke New strife in anger's zone The clash may be the penal stroke That makes a new Republic one."

He wrote his Message—clear as light, And bolder than a king's command— And when war's whirlwinds spent their might There was no bondman in the land.







TO PRESIDENT LINCOLN

January 1, 1863

Lincoln, that with thy steadfast truth the sand Of men and time and circumstance dost sway! The slave-cloud dwindles on this golden day, And over all the pestilent southern land, Breathless, the dark expectant millions stand, To watch the northern sun rise on its way, Cleaving the stormy distance—every ray Sword-bright, sword-sharp, in God's invisible hand.

Better with this great end, partial defeat, And jibings of the ignorant worldly-wise, Than laud and triumph won with shameful blows. The dead Past lies in its dead winding-sheet; The living Present droops with tearful eyes; But far beyond the awaiting Future glows.

Edmund Ollier, in London (Eng.) Morning Star.







Charles G. Foltz was born at West Winfield, Herkimer County, New York, September 9, 1837. His parents were Benjamin Foltz, a Presbyterian clergyman, and Jane Harwood Foltz. In 1846 the family moved to Cuyahoga County, Ohio. In 1849 to Wisconsin, first to Rock County, then to Walworth County, and in 1854 to Burlington, Racine County, where he has since resided.

ON FREEDOM'S SUMMIT

On freedom's summit, Oh, how grand Stood Lincoln ruler of our land, As he issued the sublime command Let the enslaved be free. Ere long he saw the Bondmen rise; Ere long as Freedmen seize the prize, The precious boon of liberty.

A backward glance he cast Into the valley of the past, Amid the shade and gloom Discerning slavery's tomb. Out from the depths his upturned eyes Beheld the fleeing clouds the brighter skies. Upon him shone a glory like the sun, Reflecting "peace toward all, malice toward none."

As thus he filled his high exalted place, The brave emancipator of a race, He thought of the fierce struggle and the victory And humbly deemed himself to be Only the instrument of a Divine decree. Rejoicing in the faith of brighter coming days His "fervent prayers" were merged in those of praise.

Like unto psalmists of the olden time His uttered thoughts inspired the nation's song, Throughout the land the chorus rose sublime, The exultant triumph of the right o'er wrong.

"Behold, what God the Lord hath wrought," More than we asked, or hoped, or thought. Through the "Red sea" of blood and carnage He brought our nation free of bondage. With Moses sing, yea shout O North; With Miriam answer back O South: That "He hath triumphed gloriously."

. . . . .

Oh why the sudden blotting out of light? The cloud of sorrow, dark as Plutonian night, That cast its lengthening shadow o'er the land; Changing to funeral dirge the choral grand. Swift as the typhoon's breath— The harbinger of death— The cruel deed of hate Swept the grand chief away. Unto this day, and ever aye, The nation mourns her martyr's fate.





ADDRESS DELIVERED AT THE DEDICATION OF THE CEMETERY AT GETTYSBURG

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate—we cannot consecrate—we cannot hallow—this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us,—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave their last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

November 19, 1863. ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

"Undoubtedly there were many in the audience who fully appreciated the beauty of the President's address, and many of those who read it on the following day perceived its wondrous character; but it is apparent that its full force and grandeur were not generally recognized then, either by its auditors or its readers. Not until the war had ended and the great leader had fallen did the nation realize that this speech had given to Gettysburg another claim to immortality and to American eloquence its highest glory."—From the monograph on the Gettysburg Address, by Maj. William H. Lambert.



Bayard Taylor, born in Kennett Square, Chester County, Pennsylvania, on the 11th of January, 1825. Died in Berlin, Germany, on the 19th of December, 1878. His boyhood was passed on a farm near Kennett. He learned to read at four, began to write at an early age, and from his twelfth year wrote poems, novels and historical essays, but mostly poems. In 1837 the family moved to Westchester, and there and at Unionville he had five years of high-school training. His first poem printed was contributed to the Saturday Evening Post, in 1841, and those to the New York Tribune from abroad, written in 1844, were widely read and shortly after his return were collected and published in Views Afoot, or Europe Seen With Knapsack and Staff. With a friend he bought a printing office in 1846, and began to publish the Phoenixville Pioneer, but it was as a poet that he excelled above most other vocations.

GETTYSBURG ODE

After the eyes that looked, the lips that spake Here, from the shadows of impending death, Those words of solemn breath, What voice may fitly break The silence, doubly hallowed, left by him? We can but bow the head, with eyes grown dim, And, as a Nation's litany, repeat The phrase his martyrdom hath made complete, Noble as then, but now more sadly sweet: "Let us, the Living, rather dedicate Ourselves to the unfinished work, which they Thus far advanced so nobly on its way, And saved the periled State! Let us, upon this field where they, the brave, Their last full measure of devotion gave, Highly resolve they have not died in vain!— That, under God, the Nation's later birth Of freedom, and the people's gain Of their own Sovereignty, shall never wane And perish from the circle of the earth!" From such a perfect text, shall Song aspire To light her faded fire, And into wandering music turn Its virtue, simple, sorrowful, and stern? His voice all elegies anticipated; For, whatsoe'er the strain, We hear that one refrain: "We consecrate ourselves to them, the Consecrated!"







Benjamin Franklin Taylor, born at Lowville, New York, July 19, 1819. He was for several years connected with the Chicago Evening Journal. He wrote Pictures of Life in Camp and Field (1871); The World on Wheels, etc. (1874); Songs of Yesterday (1877); Between the Gates (1878); Summer Savory, etc. (1879); Dulce Domum (1884); Theophilus Trent, a novel (1887); etc. Among his best known poems are: Isle of the Long Ago, Rhymes of the River, and The Old Village Choir.

LINCOLN'S SECOND INAUGURAL

The following is an excerpt from a Centennial Poem read by B. F. Taylor on Decoration Day (May 30, 1876), on the occasion of the centennial celebration by the Department of the Potomac, Grand Army of the Republic, at Arlington Cemetery, Washington, D. C.

They see the pilgrims to the Springfield tomb— Be proud today, oh, portico of gloom!— Where lies the man in solitary state Who never caused a tear but when he died And set the flags around the world half-mast— The gentle Tribune and so grandly great That e'en the utter avarice of Death That claims the world, and will not be denied, Could only rob him of his mortal breath. How strange the splendor, though the man be past! His noblest inspiration was his last. The statues of the Capitol are there. As when he stood upon the marble stair And said those words so tender, true and just, A royal psalm that took mankind on trust— Those words that will endure and he in them, While May wears flowers upon her broidered hem, And all that marble snows and drifts to dust: "Fondly do we hope, fervently we pray That this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away: With charity for all, with malice toward none, With firmness in the right As God shall give us light, Let us finish the work already begun, Care for the battle sons, the Nation's wounds to bind, Care for the helpless ones that they will leave behind, Cherish it we will, achieve it if we can, A just and lasting peace, forever unto man!" Amid old Europe's rude and thundering years, When people strove as battle-clouds are driven, One calm white angel of a day appears In every year a gift direct from Heaven, Wherein, from setting sun to setting sun No thought of deed of bitterness was done. "Day of the Truce of God!" Be this day ours, Until perpetual peace flows like a river And hopes as fragrant as these tribute flowers Fill all the land forever and forever!







Hermann Hagedorn, born in New York, July 18, 1882. Instructor in English at Harvard in 1909-1911. Wrote several one-act plays which were produced by the Harvard Dramatic Club, and by clubs of other colleges. Author of The Silver Blade (a play in verse), The Woman of Corinth, A Troop of the Guard and other poems.

OH, PATIENT EYES!

Oh, patient eyes! oh, bleeding, mangled heart! Oh, hero, whose wide soul, defying chains, Swept at each army's head, Swept to the charge and bled, Gathering in one too sorrow-laden heart All woes, all pains; The anguish of the trusted hope that wanes, The soldier's wound, the lonely mourner's smart. He knew the noisy horror of the fight, From dawn to dusk and through the hideous night He heard the hiss of bullets, the shrill scream Of the wide-arching shell, Scattering at Gettysburg or by Potomac's stream, Like summer flowers, the pattering rain of death; With every breath, He tasted battle and in every dream, Trailing like mists from gaping walls of hell, He heard the thud of heroes as they fell.







Margaret Elizabeth Sangster, born at New Rochelle, New York, February 22, 1838. Educated privately, chiefly in New York. Became contributor to leading periodicals; also editor of Hearth and Home, 1871-73; Christian at Work, 1873-79; The Christian Intelligencer since 1879; postmistress Harper's Young People, 1882-89; editor Harper's Bazar, 1889-99; staff contributor Christian Herald since 1894; Ladies' Home Journal, 1899-1905; Woman's Home Companion since 1905. Author Poems of the Household; Home Fairies and Heart Flowers; On the Road Home; Easter Bells; Winsome Womanhood; Little Knights and Ladies; Lyrics of Love; When Angels Come to Men; Good Manners for All Occasions; The Story Bible; Fairest Girlhood; From My Youth Up; Happy School Days. She died June 4, 1912.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

(February 12, 1809-1909)

Child of the boundless prairie, son of the virgin soil, Heir to the bearing of burdens, brother to them that toil; God and Nature together shaped him to lead in the van, In the stress of her wildest weather when the Nation needed a Man.

Eyes of a smoldering fire, heart of a lion at bay, Patience to plan for tomorrow, valor to serve for today, Mournful and mirthful and tender, quick as a flash with a jest, Hiding with gibe and great laughter the ache that was dull in his breast.

Met were the Man and the Hour—Man who was strong for the shock— Fierce were the lightnings unleashed; in the midst, he stood fast as a rock. Comrade he was and commander, he who was meant for the time, Iron in council and action, simple, aloof, and sublime.

Swift slip the years from their tether, centuries pass like a breath, Only some lives are immortal, challenging darkness and death. Hewn from the stuff of the martyrs, write on the stardust his name, Glowing, untarnished, transcendent, high on the records of Fame.

Oh, man of many sorrows, 'twas your blood That flowed at Chickamauga, at Bull Run, Vicksburg, Antietam, and the gory wood And Wilderness of ravenous Deaths that stood Round Richmond like a ghostly garrison: Your blood for those who won, For those who lost, your tears! For you the strife, the fears, For us, the sun! For you the lashing winds and the beating rain in your eyes, For us the ascending stars and the wide, unbounded skies.

Oh, man of storms! Patient and kingly soul! Oh, wise physician of a wasted land! A nation felt upon its heart your hand, And lo, your hand hath made the shattered, whole, With iron clasp your hand hath held the wheel Of the lurching ship, on tempest waves no keel Hath ever sailed. A grim smile held your lips when strong men quailed. You strove alone with chaos and prevailed; You felt the grinding shock and did not reel, And, ah, your hand that cut the battle's path Wide with the devastating plague of wrath, Your bleeding hand, gentle with pity yet, Did not forget To bless, to succor, and to heal.







Wilbur Dick Nesbit was born at Xenia, Ohio, September 16, 1871. Educated in the public schools at Cedarville, Ohio. Was printer and reporter on various Ohio and Indiana papers until 1898; verse writer and paragrapher Baltimore American, 1899-1902; since that year writer of verse and humor Chicago Evening Post and other newspapers, contributor of stories and poems to magazines and periodicals. Author of Little Henry's Slate, 1903; The Trail to Boyland and Other Poems, 1904; An Alphabet of History, 1905; The Gentleman Ragman, 1906; A Book of Poems, 1906; The Land of Make-Believe and Other Christmas Poems, 1907; A Friend or Two, 1908; The Loving Cup (compilation), 1909; The Old, Old Wish, 1911; My Company of Friends, 1911; If the Heart be Glad, 1911; co-author with Otto Hauerbach of The Girl of My Dreams, a musical comedy, 1910.

THE MAN LINCOLN

Not as the great who grow more great Until from us they are apart— He walks with us in man's estate; We know his was a brother heart. The marching years may render dim The humanness of other men; Today we are akin to him As they who knew him best were then.

Wars have been won by mail-clad hands, Realms have been ruled by sword-hedged kings, But he above these others stands As one who loved the common things; The common faith of man was his, The common faith of man he had— For this today his grave face is A face half joyous and half sad.

A man of earth! Of earthy stuff, As honest as the fruitful soil, Gnarled as the friendly trees, and rough As hillsides that had known his toil; Of earthy stuff—let it be told, For earth-born men rise and reveal A courage fair as beaten gold And the enduring strength of steel.

So now he dominates our thought. This humble great man holds us thus Because of all he dreamed and wrought; Because he is akin to us. He held his patient trust in truth While God was working out His plan, And they that were his foes, forsooth, Came to pay tribute to the Man.

Not as the great who grow more great Until they have a mystic fame— No stroke of fortune nor of fate Gave Lincoln his undying name. A common man, earth-bred, earth-born, One of the breed who work and wait— His was a soul above all scorn. His was a heart above all hate.







Edwin Arlington Robinson, born at Head Tide, Maine, December 22, 1869. Educated at Gardiner, Maine, and Harvard University, 1891-3. Member National Institute Arts and Letters. Author: The Torrent and The Night Before, 1896; The Children of the Night, 1897, 1905; Captain Craig (poems), The Town Down the River, 1910.

THE MASTER

(LINCOLN)

A flying word from here and there Had sown the name at which we sneered, But soon the name was everywhere, To be reviled and then revered: A presence to be loved and feared, We cannot hide it, or deny That we, the gentlemen who jeered, May be forgotten by and by.

He came when days were perilous And hearts of men were sore beguiled; And having made his note of us, He pondered and was reconciled. Was ever master yet so mild As he, and so untamable? We doubted, even when he smiled, Not knowing what he knew so well.

He knew that undeceiving fate Would shame us whom he served unsought; He knew that he must wince and wait— The jest of those for whom he fought; He knew devoutly what he thought Of us and of our ridicule; He knew that we must all be taught Like little children in a school.

We gave a glamour to the task That he encountered and saw through, But little of us did he ask, And little did we ever do. And what appears if we review The season when we railed and chaffed? It is the face of one who knew That we were learning while we laughed.

The face that in our vision feels Again the venom that we flung, Transfigured to the world reveals The vigilance to which we clung. Shrewd, hallowed, harassed, and among The mysteries that are untold, The face we see was never young Nor could it ever have been old.

For he, to whom we had applied Our shopman's test of age and worth, Was elemental when he died, As he was ancient at his birth: The saddest among kings of earth, Bowed with a galling crown, this man Met rancor with a cryptic mirth, Laconic—and Olympian.

The love, the grandeur, and the fame Are bounded by the world alone; The calm, the smouldering, and the flame Of awful patience were his own; With him they are forever flown Past all our fond self-shadowings, Wherewith we cumber the Unknown As with inept, Icarian wings.

For we were not as other men: 'Twas ours to soar and his to see. But we are coming down again, And we shall come down pleasantly; Nor shall we longer disagree On what it is to be sublime, But flourish in our perigee And have one Titan at a time.







LINCOLN

By Harriet Monroe

And, lo! leading a blessed host comes one Who held a warring nation in his heart; Who knew love's agony, but had no part In love's delight; whose mighty task was done Through blood and tears that we might walk in joy, And this day's rapture own no sad alloy. Around him heirs of bliss, whose bright brows wear Palm leaves amid their laurels ever fair. Gaily they come, as though the drum Beat out the call their glad hearts knew so well; Brothers once more, dear as of yore, Who in a noble conflict nobly fell. Their blood washed pure yon banner in the sky, And quenched the brands laid 'neath these arches high— The brave who, having fought, can never die.







Walt Mason, born at Columbus, Ontario, May 4, 1862. Self educated. Came to the United States 1880. Connected with the Atchinson Globe 1885-7, later with Lincoln (Nebraska) State Journal and other papers; editorial paragrapher Evening News, Washington, D. C., 1893; associated with William Allen White on Emporia (Kansas) Gazette since 1907. His rhymes and prose poems are widely copied in America.

THE EYES OF LINCOLN

Sad eyes that were patient and tender, Sad eyes that were steadfast and true, And warm with the unchanging splendor Of courage no ills could subdue!

Eyes dark with the dread of the morrow, And woe for the day that was gone, The sleepless companions of sorrow, The watchers that witnessed the dawn.

Eyes tired from the clamor and goading And dim from the stress of the years, And hallowed by pain and foreboding And strained by repression of tears.

Sad eyes that were wearied and blighted By visions of sieges and wars Now watch o'er a country united From the luminous slopes of the stars!







Arthur Guiterman, author, born of American parentage, at Vienna, Austria, November 20, 1871. Editorial work on Woman's Home Companion, Literary Digest and other magazines since 1891. Author of Betel Nuts, 1907; Guest Book, 1908; Rubiayat, including the Literary Omar, 1909, and Orestes (with Andre Tridon), 1909. Contributor chiefly of ballad, lyric verse and short stories to magazines and newspapers.

HE LEADS US STILL

Dare we despair? Through all the nights and days Of lagging war he kept his courage true. Shall Doubt befog our eyes? A darker haze But proved the faith of him who ever knew That Right must conquer. May we cherish hate For our poor griefs, when never word nor deed Of rancor, malice, spite, of low or great, In his large soul one poison-drop could breed?

He leads us still. O'er chasms yet unspanned Our pathway lies; the work is but begun; But we shall do our part and leave our land The mightier for noble battles won. Here Truth must triumph, Honor must prevail; The nation Lincoln died for cannot fail!







S. Weir Mitchell, born at Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, February 15, 1829. Educated in grammar school, and University of Pennsylvania, but was not graduated because of illness during senior year; Doctor of Medicine, Jefferson Medical College, 1850; LL.D., Harvard, 1886; Edinburgh, 1895; Princeton, 1896; Toronto, 1896; Jefferson Medical College, Philadelphia, 1910. Established practice in Philadelphia. Author of many works on treatment of diseases. Collected Poems, 1896-1909; Youth of Washington, 1904; A Diplomatic Adventure, 1905; The Mind Reader, 1907; A Christmas Venture, 1907; John Sherwood, Ironmaster, 1911.

LINCOLN

Chained by stern duty to the rock of State, His spirit armed in mail of rugged mirth, Ever above, though ever near to earth, Yet felt his heart the cruel tongues that sate Base appetites and, foul with slander, wait Till the keen lightnings bring the awful hour When wounds and suffering shall give them power. Most was he like to Luther, gay and great, Solemn and mirthful, strong of heart and limb. Tender and simple, too; he was so near To all things human that he cast out fear, And, ever simpler, like a little child, Lived in unconscious nearness unto Him Who always on earth's little ones hath smiled.







George Alfred Townsend was born in Georgetown, Delaware, January 30, 1841. In 1860 he began writing for the press and speaking in public, and in 1860 adopted the profession of journalism. In 1862 he became a war correspondent for the New York World, the Chicago Tribune and other papers, and made an enviable reputation as a descriptive writer. He also published a number of books both of prose and poetry.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

The peaceful valley reaching wide, The wild war stilled on every hand; On Pisgah's top our prophet died, In sight of promised land.

Low knelt the foeman's serried fronts, His cannon closed their lips of brass,— The din of arms hushed all at once To let this good man pass.

A cheerful heart he wore alway, Though tragic years clashed on the while; Death sat behind him at the play— His last look was a smile.

No battle-pike his march imbrued, Unarmed he went midst martial mails, The footsore felt their hopes renewed To hear his homely tales.

His single arm crushed wrong and thrall That grand good will we only dreamed, Two races wept around his pall, One saved and one redeemed.

The trampled flag he raised again, And healed our eagle's broken wing; The night that scattered armed men Saw scorpions rise to sting.







Paul Lawrence Dunbar, born of negro parents at Dayton, Ohio, June 27, 1872. Was graduated at the Dayton High School in 1891, and since then has devoted himself to literature and journalism. He has written Oak and Ivy (poems); Lyrics of Lowly Life (poems), and The Uncalled (a novel). Since 1898 he has been on the staff of the Librarian of Congress.

LINCOLN

Hurt was the Nation with a mighty wound, And all her ways were filled with clam'rous sound. Wailed loud the South with unremitting grief, And wept the North that could not find relief. Then madness joined its harshest tone to strife: A minor note swelled in the song of life Till, stirring with the love that filled his breast, But still, unflinching at the Right's behest Grave Lincoln came, strong-handed, from afar,— The mighty Homer of the lyre of war! 'Twas he who bade the raging tempest cease, Wrenched from his strings the harmony of peace, Muted the strings that made the discord,—Wrong, And gave his spirit up in thund'rous song. Oh, mighty Master of the mighty lyre! Earth heard and trembled at thy strains of fire: Earth learned of thee what Heaven already knew, And wrote thee down among her treasured few!







Alice Cary was born in Mount Healthy, near Cincinnati, Ohio, April 20, 1820. Her first book of poems, with her sister Phoebe, was published in 1850. Her poems and prose writings were pictures from life and nature, among which were Pictures of Memory, Mulberry Hill, Coming Home and Nobility. She died at her home in New York City, February 12, 1871. This poem is inscribed to the London Punch.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

No glittering chaplet brought from other lands! As in his life, this man, in death, is ours; His own loved prairies o'er his "gaunt, gnarled hands," Have fitly drawn their sheet of summer flowers!

What need hath he now of a tardy crown, His name from mocking jest and sneer to save When every plowman turns his furrow down As soft as though it fell upon his grave?

He was a man whose like the world again Shall never see, to vex with blame or praise; The landmarks that attest his bright, brief reign, Are battles, not the pomps of gala days!

The grandest leader of the grandest war That ever time in history gave a place,— What were the tinsel flattery of a star To such a breast! or what a ribbon's grace!

'Tis to th' man, and th' man's honest worth, The Nation's loyalty in tears upsprings; Through him the soil of labor shines henceforth, High o'er the silken broideries of kings.

The mechanism of eternal forms— The shifts that courtiers put their bodies through— Were alien ways to him: his brawny arms Had other work than posturing to do!







Rose Terry Cooke was born in West Hartford, Connecticut, February 17, 1827. Graduated at Hartford Female Seminary in 1843. She has written many short stories and a number of books of poems.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

Hundreds there have been, loftier than their kind, Heroes and victors in the world's great wars: Hundreds, exalted as the eternal stars, By the great heart, or keen and mighty mind; There have been sufferers, maimed and halt and blind, Who bore their woes in such triumphant calm That God hath crowned them with the martyr's palm; And there were those who fought through fire to find Their Master's face, and were by fire refined. But who like thee, oh Sire! hath ever stood Steadfast for truth and right, when lies and wrong Rolled their dark waters, turbulent and strong; Who bore reviling, baseness, tears and blood Poured out like water, till thine own was spent, Then reaped Earth's sole reward—a grave and monument!







Frederick Lucian Hosmer, born at Framingham, Massachusetts, October 16, 1840. Graduated at Harvard in 1869. Ordained in Unitarian Ministry at Northboro, Massachusetts, in 1869. Author of The Way of Life, The Thought of God, in Hymns and Poems.

LINCOLN

The prairies to the mountains call, The mountains to the sea; From shore to shore a nation keeps Her martyr's memory.

Though lowly born, the seal of God Was in that rugged face; Still from the humble Nazareths come The Saviours of the race.

With patient heart and vision clear He wrought through trying days— "Malice toward none, with Charity for all," Unswerved by blame or praise.

And when the morn of peace broke through The battle's cloud and din, He hailed with joy the promised land, He might now enter in.

He seemed as set by God apart, The winepress trod alone; He stands forth an uncrowned king, A people's heart his throne.

Land of our loyal love and hope, O Land he died to save, Bow down, renew today thy vows Beside his martyr grave!



Charles Monroe Dickinson, born at Lowville, New York, November 15, 1842. Educated at Fairfield (New York), Seminary and Lowville Academy. Admitted to the bar in 1865; practiced law in the State of Pennsylvania, at Binghamton, New York, and in New York City 1865-77, when he abandoned the profession because of broken health. Editor and proprietor of Binghamton Republican, 1878-1911. In 1892, upon his suggestion and initiative the various news organizations were combined into the present Associated Press. Presidential elector, 1896; United States Consul-General to Turkey, 1897-1906; Diplomatic agent to Bulgaria, 1901-1903. While acting in this capacity the American missionary, Ellen M. Stone, was carried off by brigands, but released through his settlement and efforts. Member board to draft regulations for government of American consular service 1906; American Consul-General at-large, 1906-October 1, 1908. Author of History of Dickinson Family, 1885; The Children and Other Verses, 1889; part of political history of State of New York, 1911.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

If any one hath doubt or fear That this is Freedom's chosen clime— That God hath sown and planted here The richest harvest field of Time— Let him take heart, throw off his fears, As he looks back a hundred years.

Cities and fields and wealth untold, With equal rights before the law; And, better than all lands and gold— Such as the old world never saw— Freedom and peace, the right to be, And honor to those who made us free.

Our greatness did not happen so, We owe it not to chance or fate; In furnace heat, by blow on blow, Were forged the things that make us great; And men still live who bore that heat, And felt those deadly hammers beat.

Not in the pampered courts of kings, Not in the homes that rich men keep, God calls His Davids with their slings, Or wakes His Samuels from their sleep; But from the homes of toil and need Calls those who serve as well as lead.

Such was the hero of our race; Skilled in the school of common things, He felt the sweat on Labor's face, He knew the pinch of want, the sting The bondman felt, and all the wrong The weak had suffered from the strong.

God passed the waiting centuries by, And kept him for our time of need— To lead us with his courage high— To make our country free indeed; Then, that he be by none surpassed, God crowned him martyr at the last.

Let speech and pen and song proclaim Our grateful praise this natal morn; Time hath preserved no nobler name, And generations yet unborn Shall swell the pride of those who can Claim Lincoln as their countryman.





The building is a plain brick structure, three stories high, seventy-one feet front and one hundred feet deep. It was originally constructed and occupied as a Baptist Church, but at the beginning of the war was converted into a theatre, though never used for that purpose after the assassination of Lincoln. The government purchased it for one hundred thousand dollars, and it is now used as a branch of the Record and Pension Division of the War Department. President Lincoln was shot by J. Wilkes Booth at 10.20 o'clock P.M. on the evening of April 14, 1865, while seated in his private box in the theatre.

SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS!

By Robert Leighton

"Sic semper tyrannis!" the assassin cried, As Lincoln fell. O villain! who than he More lived to set both slave and tyrant free? Or so enrapt with plans of freedom died, That even thy treacherous deed shall glance aside And do the dead man's will by land and sea; Win bloodless battles, and make that to be Which to his living mandate was denied! Peace to that gentle heart! The peace he sought For all mankind, nor for it dies in vain. Rest to the uncrowned king, who, toiling, brought His bleeding country through that dreadful reign; Who, living, earned a world's revering thought, And, dying, leaves his name without a stain.

Liverpool, England, May 5, 1865





Tom Taylor wrote the following poem, which appeared in the London Punch, May 6, 1865. The engraving is a facsimile of the one published in the paper at the head of the poem.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN, FOULLY ASSASSINATED

You lay a wreath on murdered LINCOLN'S bier, You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace, Broad for self-complacent British sneer, His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face,

His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair, His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, His lack of all we prize as debonair, Of power or will to shine, of art to please,

You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh, Judging each step, as though the way were plain: Reckless, so it could point its paragraph, Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain.

Beside this corpse, that bears for winding sheet The Stars and Stripes, he lived to rear anew, Between the mourners at his head and feet, Say, scurrile-jester, is there room for you?

Yes, he had lived to shame me from my sneer, To lame my pencil, and confute my pen— To make me own this hind of princes peer, This rail-splitter a true-born king of men.

My shallow judgment I had learnt to rue, Noting how to occasion's height he rose, How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true, How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows.

How humble, yet how hopeful he could be; How in good fortune and in ill the same; Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame.

He went about his work—such work as few Ever had laid on head and heart and hand— As one who knows, where there's a task to do, Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command.

Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow, That God makes instruments to work His will, If but that will we can arrive to know, Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill.

So he went forth to battle, on the side That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's, As in his peasant boyhood he had plied His warfare with rude Nature's thwarting mights—

The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil, The iron-bark that turned the lumberer's axe, The rapid, that o'erbears the boatmen's toil, The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks,

The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear— Such were the needs that helped his youth to train; Rough culture—but such trees large fruit may bear, If but their stocks be of right girth and grain.

So he grew up, a destined work to do, And lived to do it—four long-suffering years; Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through, And then he heard the hisses change to cheers,

The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise, And took both with the same unwavering mood; Till, as he came on light from darking days, And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood,

A felon hand, between the goal and him, Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest,— And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim, Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest!

The words of mercy were upon his lips, Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen, When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse To thoughts of peace on earth, good will to men.

The Old World and the New, from sea to sea, Utter one voice of sympathy and shame! Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high, Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came.

A deed accurst! Strokes have been struck before By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt If more of horror or disgrace they bore; But thy foul crime, like CAIN'S stands darkly out.

Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife, Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven; And with the martyr's crown crownest a life With much to praise, little to be forgiven!





Immediately after the President was shot in Ford's Theatre he was carried across the street to the house of William Petersen and placed on a single bed in a room at the end of the hall. All through that weary night the watchers stood by the bedside. He was unconscious every moment from the time the bullet entered his head until Dr. Robert King Stone, the family physician, announced at twenty-two minutes after seven on the following morning that he had breathed his last (April 15, 1865). Upon this Secretary Edwin M. Stanton, Secretary of War, in a low voice said: "Now He Belongs to the Ages."

THE DEATHBED

Silence falls, unbroken save by sobs of strong men In that room, where Lincoln, at the morning hour's chime Passed out into the unknown from the world of human ken. Gone his body and his life work from the world inclosed by time; But in the silence that was falling after breath of broken prayer, Words eternal broke the quiet like a bell toll on the air; Never in the world's wide story, wiser spoke nor Prophet, spoke nor Sages, Than these words that broke the silence: "He belongs now to the Ages!"

"To the Ages!" well you spoke it, Stanton of the massive mind! He belongs, the years have shown it, to the world of human kind! Heard his story, where'er hearts throb o'er the world's far spreading way; Heard his story, children listen at the closing of the day; Heard his story, lovers speak it in their hushed and saddened tones As they wander in the twilight, dreaming of their coming homes; Heard his story, statesmen tell it, with a thrill of pride and truth; Heard his story, old men speak it to the country's growing youth. And the years have shown the Prophets, and the years have shown the Sages; Writ in fire these words of wisdom, "He belongs now to the Ages!"







Marion Mills Miller was born at Eaton, Ohio, February 27, 1864. He was graduated from Princeton in 1886, and for several years thereafter was an instructor there in the English department. In 1889 he received the degree of Doctor of Literature from his Alma Mater. Since 1893 he has been engaged in literary and social reform work in New York City. He has published some verse and fiction, but his most notable work has been in the fields of translation and history. He has edited The Classics—Greek and Latin (15 volumes), published in 1909, and Great Debates in American History (14 volumes), published in 1913.

In 1907 he edited the Centenary Edition of The Life and Works of Abraham Lincoln in 10 volumes, logically arranged for ready reference. The Life of Lincoln was published separately in 1908 in two volumes. It is based on a manuscript by Henry C. Whitney, whose name it bears as author, although the second volume, Lincoln, the President, was largely written by Dr. Miller. The late Major William H. Lambert, president of the Lincoln Fellowship, called it "the best of the shorter biographies of Lincoln." Dr. Miller has also edited The Wisdom of Lincoln (1908), a small book of extracts from Lincoln's speeches and writings. He wrote the following poem, "Lincoln and Stanton," especially for THE POETS' LINCOLN.

The first reference in it is to the Manny-McCormick case over the patent rights of the reaping machine, in which Lincoln had been at first selected as principal pleader, but was superseded by Edwin M. Stanton. Having thoroughly prepared himself, he offered his assistance to Stanton, but was brusquely repulsed. He was so hurt that he felt like leaving the court room, but decided, in loyalty to his client, to remain, and, leaving his place among counsel, took a seat in the audience. Despite his injured feelings he was filled with admiration for Stanton's able and successful conduct of the case. Lincoln, probably referring to a slur of Stanton reported to him, said that he would have to go back to Illinois and "study more law," since the "college-bred" lawyers were pushing hard the "cornfield" ones.

The second reference is to Stanton's criticism of Lincoln's conservative course during the first months of his Presidency; "that imbecile at the White House," he called him. Stanton as Attorney-General at the close of Buchanan's administration had done effective work in foiling the plans of the Confederacy, and he believed in forceful measures to put down the rebellion in its incipiency.

The third reference is to the virtually enforced resignation of Simon Cameron, Lincoln's first Secretary of War, and Lincoln's choice to succeed him of Stanton, whom he realized to be the best equipped man in the country for the place.

The fourth reference is to Stanton's remark by the bedside of Lincoln as the stricken President ceased breathing: "There lies the greatest leader of men the world ever saw."

LINCOLN AND STANTON

Lincoln had cause one man alone to hate: A fellow-lawyer, lacking in all grace, Who cast uncalled-for insult in his face When Lincoln as his colleague, with innate Courtesy, proffered aid. With pride inflate The scornful Stanton waved him to his place, Snapping, "I need no help to try this case"; And "cornfield lawyer" muttered of his mate.

And when, as captain of the Union ship, Lincoln drew sail before the gathering storm Till favoring winds the shrouds unfurled should fill, Stanton again curled his contemptuous lip And, with the impatience of a patriot warm, Sneered at the helmsman, "craven imbecile."

Laid was the course at length; the sails untried Were spread; the raw crew set at spar and coil. Now round the prow Charybdean waters boil And ever higher surges war's red tide. The mate who should the captain's care divide Has strengthless proved. Where shall, the foe to foil, A man be found able to bear the toil And stand, to steer the ship, by Lincoln's side?

Stanton he called! The bitter choice he made For country, not himself. The ship was driven By the great twain through war's abyss, again Into calm seas. Then Lincoln low was laid, And Stanton paid him highest tribute given To mortal: "Mightiest leader among men!"



[Illustration: THE DEATH OF LINCOLN

1 President Lincoln. 2 Hon. Gideon Welles, Secretary of the Navy. 3 John Hay, Esq., President's Private Secretary. 4 Hon. E. M. Stanton, Secretary of War. 5 Rev. Dr. Gurley. 6 Gen. Farnsworth, M. C. from Illinois. 7 Governor Ogilsby of Illinois. 8 General Todd. 9 Rufus Andrews, Esq. 10 Hon. W. T. Otto, Assistant Secretary of the Interior. 11 Hon. W. Denison, Postmaster-General. 12 Judge D. K. Carter. 13 Major-General Halleck. 14 Captain Robert Lincoln. 15 Dr. Leale. 16 Hon. Charles Sumner. 17 Dr. Crane, Assistant Surgeon-General. 18 Governor Farwell, of Wisconsin. 19 Hon. J. P. Usher, Secretary of the Interior. 20 Major-General Augur. 21 Major-General Meigs. 22 Maunsel B. Field, Esq. 23 Hon. Schuyler Colfax. 24 Hon. James Speed, Attorney-General. 25 Hon. H. McCullough, Secretary of the Treasury 26 Dr. R. K. Stone. 27 Surgeon-General Barnes.]







Robert Mackay and his wife visited this historic house in 1902. They were met at the door and escorted through the various rooms containing the Collection by Little Josephine, and were deeply impressed at the knowledge she exhibited of Lincoln and the Collection, although she was but six years of age. Mr. Mackay was born at Virginia City, Nevada, April 22, 1871. Reporter San Francisco Chronicle, 1886. Worked on newspapers as printer, reporter and editor until 1895, when he traveled extensively over the world for the International News Syndicate; joined staff of the New York World in 1899; managing editor of Success Magazine, 1900-1908. Editor the Delineator, 1908. Joined editorial department of the Frank A. Munsey Company in 1909, contributor of short stories, also other prose and verse.

THE HOUSE WHERE LINCOLN DIED

Above Judea's purple-mantled plain, There hovers still, among the ruins lone, The spirit of the Christ whose dying moan Was heard in heaven, and paid our debt in pain.

As subtle perfume lingers with the rose, Even when its petals flutter to the earth, So clings the potent mystery of the birth Of that deep love from which all mercy flows.

. . . . .

Within this house,—this room,—a martyr died, A prophet of a larger liberty,— A liberator setting bondmen free, A full-orbed MAN, above mere mortal pride.

The cloud-rifts opening to celestial glades, Oft glimpse him, and his spirit lingers still, As Christ's sweet influence broods upon the hill Where the red lily with the sunset fades.

. . . . .

A little girl with eyes of heavenly blue, Sings through the old place, ignorant of all; Her angel face, her cheerful, birdlike call Thrilling the heart to life more full, more true.



IN TOKEN OF RESPECT

Translation from Latin verses

From humble parentage and low degree Lincoln ascended to the highest rank; None ever had a harder task than he, It was perfected—him alone we thank.

Did the assassin think to kill a name, Or hand his own down to posterity? One will wear the laurel wreath of fame, The other be condemned to infamy.

Caesar was killed by Brutus, Yet Rome did not cease to be; Lincoln by Booth, and yet the slaves In all America are free!

Rieti, France, May, 1865



ENGLAND'S SORROW

From London Fun

The hand of an Assassin, glowing red, Shot like a firebrand through the western sky; And stalwart Abraham Lincoln now is dead! O! felon heart that thus could basely dye The name of southerner with murderous gore! Could such a spirit come from mortal womb? And what possessed it that not heretofore It linked its coward mission with the tomb? Lincoln! thy fame shall sound through many an age, To prove that genius lives in humble birth; Thy name shall sound upon historic page, For 'midst thy faults we all esteemed thy worth.

Gone art thou now! no more 'midst angry heat Shall thy calm spirit rule the surging tide, Which rolls where two contending nations meet, To still the passion and to curb the pride. Nations have looked and seen the fate of kings, Protectors, emperors, and such like men; Behold the man whose dirge all Europe sings, Now past the eulogy of mortal pen! He, like a lighthouse, fell athwart the strand; Let curses rest upon the assassin's hand.





At ten minutes after twelve o'clock Rev. Charles H. Hall, of the Church of the Epiphany, opened the service by reading from the Episcopal Burial Service for the Dead. Bishop Matthew Simpson of the Methodist Church then offered prayer, and the Rev. Dr. Phineas D. Gurley, pastor of the New York Avenue Presbyterian Church, at which Mr. Lincoln and his family attended, delivered a sermon. The Rev. E. H. Gray, D.D., of the E Street Baptist Church, closed the solemn service with prayer.

Phineas Densmore Gurley, born at Hamilton, New York, 1816. Educated at Union College, Schenectady, New York. Taught during vacation, graduated 1837. Studied theology at the Theological Seminary, Princeton, New Jersey. Was licensed to preach in 1840. In 1840 he went to Indianapolis, Indiana, and took charge of a church. In 1849 he removed to Dayton, Ohio, taking charge of a church, and in 1853 moved to Washington, D. C., and took charge of a Presbyterian Church on F Street, afterwards Willard Hall. In 1858 was elected Chaplain of the United States Senate. In July, 1859, the Second Presbyterian Church and the F Street Church united, and were known as the New York Avenue Presbyterian Church, Dr. Gurley becoming its pastor from March, 1861, until his death. President Lincoln was a pew holder and a regular attendant, but was not a member. On one occasion the President remarked, "I like Dr. Gurley, he doesn't preach politics. I get enough of that during the week, and when I go to church I like to hear gospel."

When the President was assassinated Dr. Gurley was sent for and remained with the President until he breathed his last.

As soon as the spirit took its flight, Secretary Stanton turned to Dr. Gurley and said, "Doctor, will you say something?" After a brief pause, Dr. Gurley said, "Let us talk with God," and offered a touching prayer. Dr. Gurley died September 30, 1868.

THE FUNERAL HYMN OF LINCOLN

Rest, noble martyr! rest in peace; Rest with the true and brave, Who, like thee, fell in freedom's cause, The nation's life to save.

Thy name shall live while time endures, And men shall say of thee, "He saved his country from its foes, And bade the slave be free."

These deeds shall be thy monument, Better than brass or stone; They leave thy fame in glory's light, Unrival'd and alone.

This consecrated spot shall be To freedom ever dear; And freedom's sons of every race Shall weep and worship here.

O God! before whom we, in tears, Our fallen chief deplore, Grant that the cause for which he died May live forevermore.



Harriet McEwen Kimball, born at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, November, 1834. Educated there; specially known as a religious poet, although she has written much secular verse; chief founder of the Portsmouth Cottage Hospital. Author hymns, Swallow Flights; Blessed Company of All Faithful People; Poems (complete edition), 1889.

REST, REST FOR HIM

Rest, rest for him whose noble work is done; For him who led us gently, unaware, Till we were readier to do and dare For Freedom, and her hundred fields were won.

His march is ended where his march began; More sweet his sleep for toil and sacrifice, And that rare wisdom whose beginning lies In fear of God, and charity for man;

And sweetest for the tender faith that grew More strong in trial, and through doubt more clear, Seeing in clouds and darkness One appear In whose dread name the Nation's sword he drew.

Rest, rest for him; and rest for us today Whose sorrow shook the land from east to west When slain by treason on the Nation's breast Her martyr breathed his steadfast soul away.





This car bore the remains of the Martyr President to his home in Springfield, Illinois, where they were laid to rest. The funeral train left Washington, D. C., on the 21st of April, 1865, proceeded from that city to Baltimore, Maryland; Harrisburg and Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; New York City, Albany and Buffalo, New York; Cleveland and Columbus, Ohio; Indianapolis, Indiana; Chicago, Illinois; and finally to Springfield, reaching the latter place May 3, where the last sad rites were performed on the succeeding day. The body lay in state in all the above cities, brief stops being also made in many smaller places.

Richard Henry Stoddard in the following Horatian Ode made a beautiful analysis of the Martyr President's character, with a magnificent picture of the nation's tribute of mourning for its dead chief:

THE FUNERAL CAR OF LINCOLN

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, And leave your muskets on the wall; Your country needs you now Beside the forge, the plow!

(When Justice shall unsheathe her brand— If Mercy may not stay her hand, Nor would we have it so— She must direct the blow!)

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, With History on her ample page The virtues shall enroll Of that Paternal Soul.



William Cullen Bryant, born in Cummington, Massachusetts, November 3, 1794. Died in New York, June 12, 1878. He wrote verses in his twelfth year to be recited at school. Spent two years at Williams College and at the age of eighteen began the study of law. He depended upon his profession for a number of years, although it was not to his liking. His contributions to the North American Review and his poems published therein gained him an enviable reputation, and reflected great credit upon him.

THE DEATH OF LINCOLN

Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare, Gentle and merciful and just! Who, in the fear of God didst bear The sword of power, a nation's trust.

In sorrow by thy bier we stand, Amid the awe that hushes all, And speak the anguish of a land That shook with horror at thy fall.

Thy task is done; the bond is free— We bear thee to an honored grave, Whose noblest monument shall be The broken fetters of the slave.

Pure was thy life; its bloody close Hath placed thee with the sons of light Among the noble host of those Who perished in the cause of right.





At the time of the appearance of the procession at the City Hall at least twenty thousand persons were assembled in the immediate neighborhood. While awaiting the arrival of the procession a number of German singing bands were marched into the open space before the Hall, and arranged on either side of the entrance, preparatory to the singing of a requiem to the dead. The procession entered the Park at about half-past eleven o'clock, and the hearse stopped before the entrance to the Hall. Here the coffin was immediately taken from the hearse and carried up the stairs to the catafalque which had been prepared for its reception, while the singing societies rendered two very appropriate dirges.

The interior of the City Hall had been decorated with much taste. Across the dome a black curtain was drawn, and the rays of light thus conducted fell subdued upon the sad but imposing spectacle.



Henry T. Tuckerman, a member of the Committee on Resolutions, wrote the following ode for the funeral obsequies, on the 25th day of April, 1865, at New York City. The Athenaeum Club participated, bearing an appropriate banner, the members wearing distinctive badges of mourning and under the leadership of their Vice-President, Henry E. Pierpont; the President, William T. Blodgett, being at that time absent acting as Chairman of the Citizens Committee:

ODE

Shroud the banner! rear the cross! Consecrate a nation's loss; Gaze on that majestic sleep; Stand beside the bier to weep; Lay the gentle son of toil Proudly in his native soil; Crowned with honor, to his rest Bear the prophet of the West.

How cold the brow that yet doth wear The impress of a nation's care; How still the heart, whose every beat Glowed with compassion's sacred heat; Rigid the lips, whose patient smile Duty's stern task would oft beguile; Blood-quenched the pensive eye's soft light; Nerveless the hand so loth to smite; So meek in rule, it leads, though dead, The people as in life it led.

O let his wise and guileless sway Win every recreant today, And sorrow's vast and holy wave Blend all our hearts around his grave! Let the faithful bondmen's tears, Let the traitor's craven fears, And the people's grief and pride, Plead against the parricide! Let us throng to pledge and pray O'er the patriot martyr's clay; Then, with solemn faith in right, That made him victor in the fight, Cling to the path he fearless trod, Still radiant with the smile of God.

Shroud the banner! rear the cross! Consecrate a nation's loss; Gaze on that majestic sleep; Stand beside the bier to weep; Lay the gentle son of toil Proudly in his native soil; Crowned with honor, to his rest Bear the prophet of the West.



Lucy Larcom was born in Beverly, Mass., in 1826. At the age of seven years she wrote stories and poems. She spent three years in school, then worked in the cotton mills. Some of her writings attracted the attention of Whittier, from whom she received encouragement. At the age of twenty she went to Illinois and there taught school for some time, and for three years studied in Monticello Female Seminary. She returned to Massachusetts and during the war wrote many patriotic poems.

TOLLING

Tolling, tolling, tolling! All the bells of the land! Lo, the patriot martyr Taketh his journey grand! Travels into the ages, Bearing a hope how dear! Into life's unknown vistas, Liberty's great pioneer.

Tolling, tolling, tolling! See, they come as a cloud, Hearts of a mighty people, Bearing his pall and shroud; Lifting up, like a banner, Signals of loss and woe; Wonder of breathless nations, Moveth the solemn show.

Tolling, tolling, tolling! Was it, O man beloved, Was it thy funeral only Over the land that moved?





The remains of President Lincoln lay in state in the City Hall, New York, from noon April 24 to noon April 25, 1865. Visitors were admitted to view the remains, passing through the Hall two abreast. Singing societies sang dirges in the rotunda the night through.



Richard Storrs Willis was born in Boston, Massachusetts, February 10, 1819, was graduated at Yale in 1841, and adopted literature as his profession. He has published musical and other poems; has edited the New York Musical World and Once a Week, and contributed also to current literature. He wrote the following:

REQUIEM OF LINCOLN

Now wake the requiem's solemn moan, For him whose patriot task is done! A nation's heart stands still today With horror, o'er his martyred clay!

O, God of Peace, repress the ire, Which fills our souls with vengeful fire! Vengeance is Thine—and sovereign might, Alone, can such a crime requite!

Farewell, thou good and guileless heart! The manliest tears for thee must start! E'en those at times who blamed thee here, Now deeply sorrow o'er thy bier.

O, Jesus, grant him sweet repose, Who, like Thee, seemed to love his foes! Those foes, like Thine, their wrath to spend, Have slain their best, their firmest friend.





The funeral train bearing the remains of President Lincoln reached Buffalo, New York, on Thursday morning, the 27th of April. The body was taken from the funeral car and borne by soldiers up to St. James' Hall, where it was placed under a crape canopy, extending from the ceiling to the floor. The Buffalo St. Cecilia Society sang with deep pathos the dirge "Rest, Spirit, Rest," the society then placed an elegantly formed harp, made of choice white flowers, at the head of the coffin, as a tribute from them to the honored dead. The public were admitted to view the remains, and the following day the remains reached Cleveland, Ohio.



James Nicoll Johnston was born in Ardee, County Donegal, Ireland. When two years of age the family moved to Cashelmore, Sheephaven Bay, County Donegal. In 1847 they moved to America. He was then between fifteen and sixteen years of age. In 1848 they settled at Buffalo, New York, which has been his home until the present time.

He has published two editions of Donegal Memories, also two editions of Donegal Memories and Other Poems, and a volume of Buffalo verse collected by him under the title of Poets and Poetry of Buffalo. He assisted in collections of Buffalo local literature, also devoted much time to the production of publications of a philanthropic nature.

REQUIEM

Bear him to his Western home, Whence he came four years ago; Not beneath some Eastern dome, But where Freedom's airs may come, Where the prairie grasses grow, To the friends who loved him so,

Take him to his quiet rest; Toll the bell and fire the gun; He who served his Country best, He whom millions loved and bless'd, Now has fame immortal won; Rack of brain and heart is done.

Shed thy tears, O April rain, O'er the tomb wherein he sleeps! Wash away the bloody stain! Drape the skies in grief, O rain! Lo! a nation with thee weeps, Grieving o'er her martyred slain.

To the people whence he came, Bear him gently back again, Greater his than victor's fame: His is now a sainted name; Never ruler had such gain— Never people had such pain.







Oliver Wendell Holmes, born in Cambridge, Mass., August 29, 1809. To him belongs the credit of saving the frigate Constitution from destruction, by a poem—Aye, Tear the Battered Ensign Down. He died August 7, 1894.

SERVICES IN MEMORY OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN

(City of Boston, June 1, 1865)

O Thou of soul and sense and breath, The ever-present Giver, Unto Thy mighty angel, death, All flesh Thou didst deliver; What most we cherish, we resign, For life and death alike are Thine, Who reignest Lord forever!

Our hearts lie buried in the dust With him, so true and tender, The patriot's stay, the people's trust, The shield of the offender; Yet every murmuring voice is still, As, bowing to Thy sovereign will, Our best loved we surrender.

Dear Lord, with pitying eye behold This martyr generation, Which Thou, through trials manifold, Art showing Thy salvation! O let the blood by murder spilt Wash out Thy stricken children's guilt, And sanctify our Nation!

Be Thou Thy orphaned Israel's friend, Forsake Thy people never, In one our broken many blend, That none again may sever! Hear us, O Father, while we raise With trembling lips our song of praise, And bless Thy name forever!



[Illustration: LINCOLN HOMESTEAD, MAY 4, 1865

Photographed by F. W. Ingmire on the day of the funeral, with the members of the National Committee appointed to accompany the remains to Springfield, Illinois.

Members on the pavement: Left (1) Hon. Schuyler Colfax, Speaker of the House; (2) Hon. R. C. Schenck, Ohio; (3) Hon. Lyman Trumbull, Illinois; (4) Hon. Charles E. Phelps, Maryland; (5) Hon. W. H. Wallace, Idaho; (6) Hon. Joseph Baily, Pennsylvania; (7) Hon. James K. Morehead, Pennsylvania; (8) Hon. Sidney Clarke, Kansas; (9) Hon. Samuel Hooper, Massachusetts; (10) Hon. E. B. Washburn, Illinois; (11) Hon. Thomas W. Ferry, Michigan; (12) Hon. Thomas B. Shannon, California; (13) S. G. Ordway, Sergeant-at-Arms of the House.