Members in the yard: Left (1) Hon. Isaac N. Arnold, Illinois; (2) Hon. John B. Henderson, Missouri; (3) Hen. Richard Yates, Illinois; (4) Hon. James W. Nye, Nevada; (5) Hon. Henry S. Lane, Indiana; (6) Hon. George H. Williams, Oregon; (7) Hon. George T. Brown, Sergeant-at-Arms of the Senate; (8) Hon. William A. Newell, New Jersey.]



William Allen, D.D., born 1784, died 1868. Graduated at Harvard, 1802. President Dartmouth College, 1816-1819, Bowdoin College, 1820-1839. He was the father of American Biography, published various volumes of poems; as a philologist, he contributed many thousands of words and definitions to Webster and Worcester's dictionaries. He was leader of the American delegation to the National Peace Congress at Versailles in 1849.

SPRINGFIELD'S WELCOME TO LINCOLN

Lincoln! thy country's father, hail! We bid thee welcome, but bewail; Welcome unto thy chosen home— Triumphant, glorious, dost thou come.

Before the enemy struck the blow That laid thee in a moment low, God gave thy wish: It was to see Our Union safe, our country free.

A country where the gospel truth Shall reach the hearts of age and youth, And move unchained, in majesty, A model land of liberty!

When Jacob's bones, from Egypt borne, Regained their home, the people mourn; Great mourning then at Ephron's cave, Both Abraham's and Isaac's grave.

Far greater is the mourning now; For our land one emblem wide of woe; And where thy coffin car appears Do not the people throng in tears?

Thy triumph of a thousand miles, Like eastern conqueror with his spoils— A million hearts thy captives led, All weeping for their chieftain dead.

Thy chariot, moved with eagle speed Without the aid of prancing steed, Has brought thee to that destined tomb; Springfield, thy home, will give thee room.

Lincoln, the martyr, welcome home! What lessons blossom on thy tomb! In God's pure truth and law delight; With firm, unwavering soul do right.

Be condescending, kind and just; In God's wise counsels put thy trust; Let no proud soul e'er dare rebel, Moved by vile passions sprung from hell.

Come, sleep with us in sweet repose, Till we, as Christ from death arose, Still in His glorious image rise To dwell with him beyond the skies.





The body of the President lay in state in the Capitol, Springfield, Illinois—which was very richly draped—from May 3 to May 4, when it was removed to Oak Ridge Cemetery.



Lucy Hamilton Hooper, born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, January 20, 1835. In conjunction with Charles G. Leland she edited Our Daily Fare, the daily chronicle of the Philadelphia Sanitary Fair in 1864. She was assistant editor of Lippincott's Magazine from its foundation until she went to Europe in 1870. In 1874 she settled in Paris and since has been correspondent for various journals in this country. She has published Poems, with Translations from the German (Philadelphia, 1864), another volume of Poems (1871); a translation of Le Nabob, by Alphonse Daudet (Boston, 1879); and Under the Tricolor, a novel (Philadelphia, 1880). She died August 31, 1893.

LINCOLN

There is a shadow on the sunny air, There is a darkness o'er the April day, We bow our heads beneath this awful cloud So sudden come, and not to pass away.

O the wild grief that sweeps across our land From frozen Maine to Californian shore! A people's tears, an orphaned nation's wail, For him the good, the great, who is no more.

The noblest brain that ever toiled for man, The kindest heart that ever thrilled a breast, The lofty soul unstained by soil of earth, Sent by a traitor to a martyr's rest.

And his last act (O gentle, kindly heart!) The noble prompting of unselfish grace. He would not disappoint the waiting crowd Who came to gaze upon his honored face.

O God, thy ways are just, and yet we find This dispensation hard to understand. Why must our Prophet's weary feet be stay'd Upon the borders of the Promised Land?

He bore the heat, the burden of the day, The golden eventide he shall not see; He shall not see the old flag wave again Over a land united, saved, and free.

He loved his people, and he ever lent To all our griefs a sympathizing ear; Now for the first time in these four sad years The stricken nation wails—he does not hear.

O never wept a land a nobler Chief! Kind heart, strong hand, true soul—yet, while we weep Let us remember, e'en amid our tears, 'Tis God who gives to his beloved sleep.

So sleeps he now, the chosen man of God, No more shall care or sorrow wring his breast; The weary one and heavy laden, lies Hushed by the voice of God to endless rest.

We need no solemn knell, no tolling bells, No chanted dirge, no vain words sadly said. The saddest knell that ever stirred the air Rang in those words, "Our President is dead!"





The remains of President Lincoln were deposited in this receiving vault of Oak Ridge Cemetery, Springfield, Illinois, on the 4th of May, 1865, where they remained until December 21, 1865, when they were removed to a temporary vault near the site of the public one. On September 19, 1871, the remains were removed to the monument which had been erected and which stands on the top of the hill in that cemetery back of the public vault. The remains of Mrs. Lincoln, Willie and Thomas (Tad), are also resting there.



LET THE PRESIDENT SLEEP

By James M. Stewart

Let the President sleep! all his duty is done, He has lived for our glory, the triumph is won; At the close of the fight, like a warrior brave, He retires from the field to the rest of the grave. Hush the roll of the drum, hush the cannon's loud roar, He will guide us to peace through the battle no more; But new freedom shall dawn from the place of his rest, Where the star has gone down in the beautiful West. Tread lightly, breathe softly, and gratefully bring To the sod that enfolds him the first flowers of spring; They will tenderly treasure the tears that we weep O'er the grave of our chief—let the President sleep.

Let the President sleep—tears will hallow the ground, Where we raise o'er his ashes the sheltering mound, And his spirit will sometimes return from above, There to mingle with ours in ineffable love. Peace to thee, noble dead, thou hast battled for right, And hast won high reward from the Father of Light; Peace to thee, martyr-hero, and sweet be thy rest, Where the sunlight fades out in the beautiful West. Tread lightly, breathe softly, and gratefully bring To the sod that enfolds him the first flowers of spring; They will tenderly treasure the tears that we weep O'er the grave of our chief—let the President sleep!







James Mackay, born in New York, April 8, 1872. Author of The Economy of Happiness, The Politics of Utility, and of various lectures on Scientific Ethics, etc.

THE CENOTAPH OF LINCOLN

And so they buried Lincoln? Strange and vain Has any creature thought of Lincoln hid In any vault 'neath any coffin lid, In all the years since that wild spring of pain? 'Tis false—he never in the grave hath lain. You could not bury him although you slid Upon his clay the Cheops Pyramid, Or heaped it with the Rocky Mountain chain. They slew themselves;—they but set Lincoln free. In all the earth his great heart beats as strong, Shall beat while pulses throb to chivalry, And burn with hate of tyranny and wrong. Whoever will may find him, anywhere Save in the tomb. Not there—he is not there.





A movement was started shortly after the burial of Lincoln to raise funds sufficient to build a monument over his grave. Contributions were made by various States and societies, and about sixty thousand Sunday-school scholars contributed the sum of eighteen thousand dollars. Ground was broken on the 9th of September, 1869, and the monument was dedicated on the 15th of October, 1874, at a total cost of two hundred and thirty thousand dollars.



James Judson Lord, born at Berwick, Maine, in 1821. He had the advantage of an excellent early education followed by years of research. During his preparatory studies at Cambridge he met Longfellow, who loaned him books from his own library. For a time he studied art under prominent masters, but his health failing, after a time of forced leisure he went into the mercantile business in Boston, which vocation he afterward followed. In 1851 he went to Illinois; finally, after his marriage, settling in Springfield. There he knew Mr. Lincoln, with whom he was on terms of closest friendship.

The poem submitted by Mr. Lord was selected for reading at the dedication of the National Lincoln Monument in a competition which brought contributions from many leading poets.

He was the author of several dramas, and from time to time contributed poems to leading magazines and newspapers of the country. He died January 3, 1905.

DEDICATION POEM

Read by Richard Edwards, LL.D., President Illinois State Normal University at Bloomington, Illinois

We build not here a temple or a shrine, Nor hero-fane to demigods divine; Nor to the clouds a superstructure rear For man's ambition or for servile fear. Not to the Dust, but to the Deeds alone A grateful people raise th' historic stone; For where a patriot lived, or hero fell, The daisied turf would mark the spot as well.

What though the Pyramids, with apex high, Like Alpine peaks cleave Egypt's rainless sky, And cast grim shadows o'er a desert land Forever blighted by oppression's hand? No patriot zeal their deep foundations laid— No freeman's hand their darken'd chambers made— No public weal inspired the heart with love, To see their summits towering high above. The ruling Pharaoh, proud and gory-stained, With vain ambitions never yet attained;— With brow enclouded as his marble throne, And heart unyielding as the building stone;— Sought with the scourge to make mankind his slaves, And heaven's free sunlight darker than their graves. His but to will, and theirs to yield and feel, Like vermin'd dust beneath his iron heel;— Denies all mercy, and all right offends, Till on his head th' avenging Plague descends.

Historic justice bids the nations know That through each land of slaves a Nile of blood shall flow: And Vendome Columns, on a people thrust, Are, by the people, level'd with the dust.

Nor stone, nor bronze, can fit memorials yield For deeds of valor on the bloody field, 'Neath war's dark clouds the sturdy volunteer, By freedom taught his country to revere, Bids home and friends a hasty, sad adieu, And treads where dangers all his steps pursue; Finds cold and famine on his dauntless way, And with mute patience brooks the long delay, Or hears the trumpet, or the thrilling drum Peal the long roll that calls: "They come! they come!" Then to the front with battling hosts he flies, And lives to triumph, or for freedom dies. Thund'ring amain along the rocky strand, The Ocean claims her honors with the Land. Loud on the gale she chimes the wild refrain, Or with low murmur wails her heroes slain! In gory hulks, with splinter'd mast and spar, Rocks on her stormy breast the valiant Tar:— Lash'd to the mast he gives the high command, Or midst the fight, sinks with the Cumberland.

Beloved banner of the azure sky, Thy rightful home where'er thy eagles fly; On thy blue field the stars of heav'n descend, And to our day a purer luster lend. O, Righteous God! who guard'st the right alway, And bade Thy peace to come, "and come to stay": And while war's deluge fill'd the land with blood, With bow of promise arch'd the crimson flood,— From fratricidal strife our banner screen, And let it float henceforth in skies serene.

Yet cunning art shall here her triumphs bring, And laurel'd bards their choicest anthems sing. Here, honor'd age shall bare its wintery brow, And youth to freedom make a Spartan vow. Here, ripened manhood from its walks profound, Shall come and halt, as if on hallow'd ground.

Here shall the urn with fragrant wreaths be drest, By tender hands the flow'ry tributes prest; And wending westward, from oppressions far, Shall pilgrims come, led by our freedom-star; While bending lowly, as o'er friendly pall, The silent tear from ebon cheeks shall fall.

Sterile and vain the tributes which we pay— It is the Past that consecrates today The spot where rests one of the noble few Who saw the right, and dared the right to do. True to himself and to his fellow men, With patient hand he moved the potent pen, Whose inky stream did, like the Red Sea's flow, Such bondage break and such a host o'erthrow! The simple parchment on its fleeting page Bespeaks the import of the better age,— When man, for man, no more shall forge the chain, Nor armies tread the shore, nor navies plow the main. Then shall this boon to human freedom given Be fitly deem'd a sacred gift of heaven;— Though of the earth, it is no less divine,— Founded on truth it will forever shine, Reflecting rays from heaven's unchanging plan— The law of right and brotherhood of man.



Edna Dean Proctor, born in Henniker, New Hampshire, October 10, 1838. She received her early education in Concord and subsequently removed to Brooklyn, New York. She contributed largely to magazine literature and has traveled extensively abroad. Of all her poems By the Shenandoah is probably the most popular.

THE GRAVE OF LINCOLN

Now must the storied Potomac Laurels forever 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.

Break into blossom, O prairie! 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.

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!





The first contribution of five dollars for the statue in Lincoln Park, Washington, D. C., was made by a colored woman named Charlotte Scott, of Marietta, Ohio, the morning after the assassination of President Lincoln, and the entire cost of said monument, amounting to $17,000, was paid by subscriptions of colored people. It was unveiled April 14, 1876.



James Russell Lowell, born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, February 22, 1819. He received his degree in 1838, at Harvard, and his first production was a class poem which was delivered on that date. He was successor of Professor Longfellow in the chair of Modern Languages at Harvard College. In 1877 he was appointed by President Hayes to the Spanish Mission, from which he was transferred in 1880 to the Court of St. James. A long list of poetical works have been published to his credit. He died August 12, 1891.

COMMEMORATION ODE

Life may be given in many ways, And loyalty to Truth be sealed As bravely in the closet as the field, So bountiful is Fate; But then to stand beside her, When craven churls deride her, To front a lie in arms and not to yield, This shows, methinks, God's plan And measures of a stalwart man, Limbed like the old heroic breeds, Who stand self-poised on manhood's solid earth; Not forced to frame excuses for his birth, Fed from within with all the strength he needs.

Such was he, our Martyr-Chief, Whom late the Nation he had led, With ashes on her head, Wept with the passion of an angry grief; Forgive me, if from present things I turn To speak what in my heart will beat and burn, And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn. Nature, they say, doth dote, And cannot make a man Save on some worn-out plan, Repeating us by rote: For him her Old World molds aside she threw, And, choosing sweet clay from the breast Of the unexhausted West,

With stuff untainted shaped a hero new, Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true. How beautiful to see Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed, Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead; One whose meek flock the people joyed to be, Not lured by any cheat of birth, But by his clear-grained human worth, And brave old wisdom of sincerity! They knew that outward grace is dust; They could not choose but trust In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill, And supple-tempered will That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust!

His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind, Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars, A sea-mark now, now lost in vapors blind; Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined, Fruitful and friendly for all human kind, Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of loftiest stars. Nothing of Europe here, Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still, Ere any names of Serf or Peer Could Nature's equal scheme deface; Here was a type of the true elder race, And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face.

I praise him not; it were too late; And some innative weakness there must be In him who condescends to victory Such as the present gives, and cannot wait, Safe in himself as in a fate. So always firmly he; He knew to bide his time, And can his fame abide, Still patient in his simple faith sublime, Till the wise years decide. Great captains, with their guns and drums, Disturb our judgment for the hour, But at last silence comes; These are all gone, and, standing like a tower, Our children shall behold his fame, The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame, New birth of our new soil, the first American.







Richard Henry Stoddard, born in Hingham, Massachusetts, July 2, 1825. His first book, entitled Foot Prints, was published in 1849, and some three years after a more mature collection of poems was published. In later years a number of his books were published, all of which have been received with approbation by the public. Died May 12, 1903.

AN HORATIAN ODE

(To Lincoln)

Not as when some great captain falls In battle, where his country calls, Beyond the struggling lines That push his dread designs

To doom, by some stray ball struck dead: Or in the last charge, at the head Of his determined men, Who must be victors then!

Nor as when sink the civic great, The safer pillars of the State, Whose calm, mature, wise words Suppress the need of swords!

With no such tears as e'er were shed Above the noblest of our dead Do we today deplore The man that is no more.

Our sorrow hath a wider scope, Too strange for fear, too vast for hope,— A wonder, blind and dumb, That waits—what is to come!

Not more astonished had we been If madness, that dark night, unseen, Had in our chambers crept, And murdered while we slept!

We woke to find a mourning earth— Our Lares shivered on the hearth,— To roof-tree fallen—all That could affright, appall!

Such thunderbolts, in other lands, Have smitten the rod from royal hands, But spared, with us, till now, Each laureled Caesar's brow.

No Caesar he, whom we lament, A man without a precedent, Sent it would seem, to do His work—and perish too!

Not by the weary cares of state, The endless tasks, which will not wait, Which, often done in vain, Must yet be done again;

Not in the dark, wild tide of war, Which rose so high, and rolled so far, Sweeping from sea to sea In awful anarchy;—

Four fateful years of mortal strife, Which slowly drained the Nation's life, (Yet, for each drop that ran There sprang an armed man!)

Not then;—but when by measures meet— By victory, and by defeat, By courage, patience, skill, The people's fixed "We will!"

Had pierced, had crushed rebellion dead— Without a hand, without a head:— At last, when all was well, He fell—O, how he fell!

Tyrants have fallen by such as thou, And good hath followed,—may it now! (God lets bad instruments Produce the best events.)

But he, the man we mourn today, No tyrant was; so mild a sway In one such weight who bore Was never known before!

From "Poems of Richard Henry Stoddard" Copyright, 1880, by Charles Scribner's Sons.





Walt Whitman, born in West Hills, Long Island, New York, May 31, 1819. He was educated in the public schools of Brooklyn and New York City. Learned the printing trade at which he worked during the summer and taught school in winter. He made long pedestrian tours through the United States and even extended his tramps through Canada. His chief work, Leaves of Grass, is a series of poems through which he earned the praise of some and the abuse of others. He visited the army when a brother was wounded and remained afterward as a volunteer nurse. Died 1892.

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done; The ship has weather'd every wrack, the prize we sought is won; The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel firm and daring;

But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen, cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills; For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding; For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here, Captain! dear Father! This arm beneath your head; It is some dream that on the deck You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; My Father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done; From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck where my Captain lies, Fallen, cold and dead.







Henry de Garrs, of Sheffield, England, wrote these lines on the assassination of Abraham Lincoln in 1865. They were published in England in 1889, and later in America, in the Century.

ON THE ASSASSINATION OF LINCOLN

What dreadful rumor, hurtling o'er the sea, Too monstrous for belief, assails our shore? Men pause and question, Can such foul crime be? Till lingering doubt may cling to hope no more. Not when great Caesar weltered in his gore, Nor since, in time, or circumstance, or place, Hath crime so shook the World's great heart before. O World! O World! of all thy records base, Time wears no fouler scar on his time-smitten face.

A king of men, inured to hardy toil, Rose truly royal up the steeps of life, Till Europe's monarchs seemed to dwarf the while Beneath his greatness—great when traitors rife Pierced deep his country's heart with treason-knife; But greatest when victorious he stood, Crowning with mercy freedom's greatest strife. The world saw the new light of godlike good Ere the assassin's hand shed his most precious blood.

Lament thy loss, sad sister of the West: Not one, but many nations with thee weep; Cherish thy martyr on thy wounded breast, And lay him with thy Washington to sleep. Earth holds no fitter sepulcher to keep His royal heart—one of thy kings to be Who reign even from the grave; whose scepters sweep More potent over human destiny Than all ambition's pride and power and majesty.

Yet, yet rejoice that thou hadst such a son; The mother of such a man should never sigh; Could longer life a nobler cause have won? Could longest age more gloriously die? Oh! lift thy heart, thy mind, thy soul on high With deep maternal pride, that from thy womb Came such a son to scourge hell's foulest lie Out of life's temple. Watchers by his tomb! He is not there, but risen: that grave is slavery's doom.



POETICAL TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN

By Emily J. Bugbee

There's a burden of grief on the breezes of Spring, And a song of regret from the bird on its wing; There's a pall on the sunshine and over the flowers, And a shadow of graves on these spirits of ours; For a star hath gone out from the night of our sky, On whose brightness we gazed as the war-cloud roll'd by; So tranquil, and steady, and clear were its beams, That they fell like a vision of peace on our dreams.

A heart that we knew had been true to our weal, And a hand that was steadily guiding the wheel; A name never tarnished by falsehood or wrong, That had dwelt in our hearts like a soul-stirring song. Ah! that pure, noble spirit has gone to its rest, And the true hand lies nerveless and cold on his breast; But the name and the memory—these never will die, But grow brighter and dearer as ages go by.

Yet the tears of a Nation fall over the dead, Such tears as a Nation before never shed; For our cherished one fell by a dastardly hand, A martyr to truth and the cause of the land; And a sorrow has surged, like the waves to the shore, When the breath of the tempest is sweeping them o'er, And the heads of the lofty and lowly have bowed, As the shaft of the lightning sped out from the cloud.

Not gathered, like Washington, home to his rest, When the sun of his life was far down in the West; But stricken from earth in the midst of his years, With the Canaan in view, of his prayers and his tears. And the people, whose hearts in the wilderness failed, Sometimes, when the star of their promise had paled, Now, stand by his side on the mount of his fame, And yield him their hearts in a grateful acclaim.







John Nichol, born at Montrose, Forfarshire, Scotland, September 8, 1833. He was a professor of English Literature at the University of Glasgow (1861-1889), and did much to make American books popular in England. His numerous publications include: Leaves (1854), verse; Tables of European History, 200-1876 A.D. (1876); fourth edition (1888); Byron in English Men of Letters series; American Literature, 1520-1880 (1882). He was an ardent advocate of the Northern cause during the Civil War, and visited the United States at the close of the conflict. He died at London, England, October 11, 1894.

LINCOLN, 1865

An end at last! The echoes of the war— The weary war beyond the Western waves— Die in the distance. Freedom's rising star Beacons above a hundred thousand graves;

The graves of heroes who have won the fight, Who in the storming of the stubborn town Have rung the marriage peal of might and right, And scaled the cliffs and cast the dragon down.

Paeans of armies thrill across the sea, Till Europe answers—"Let the struggle cease. The bloody page is turned; the next may be For ways of pleasantness and paths of peace!"

A golden morn—a dawn of better things— The olive-branch—clasping of hands again— A noble lesson read to conquered kings— A sky that tempests had not scoured in vain.

This from America we hoped and him Who ruled her "in the spirit of his creed." Does the hope last when all our eyes are dim, As history records her darkest deed?

The pilot of his people through the strife, With his strong purpose turning scorn to praise, E'en at the close of battle reft of life And fair inheritance of quiet days.

Defeat and triumph found him calm and just, He showed how clemency should temper power, And, dying, left to future times in trust The memory of his brief victorious hour.

O'ermastered by the irony of fate, The last and greatest martyr of his cause; Slain like Achilles at the Scaean gate, He saw the end, and fixed "the purer laws."

May these endure and, as his work, attest The glory of his honest heart and hand— The simplest, and the bravest, and the best— The Moses and the Cromwell of his land.

Too late the pioneers of modern spite, Awe-stricken by the universal gloom, See his name lustrous in Death's sable night, And offer tardy tribute at his tomb.

But we who have been with him all the while, Who knew his worth, and loved him long ago, Rejoice that in the circuit of our isle There is at last no room for Lincoln's foe.







Christopher Pearse Cranch, born in Alexandria, Virginia, March 8, 1813. Graduated at the school of Divinity, Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1835, but retired from the ministry in 1842 to devote himself to art. He studied in Italy in 1846-8, and lived and painted in 1853-63, and, returning to New York, was elected a member of the National Academy in 1864. He was a graceful writer of both prose and verse.

LINCOLN

But yesterday—the exulting nation's shout Swelled on the breeze of victory through our streets, But yesterday—our banners flaunted out Like flowers the south wind woos from their retreats; Flowers of the nation, blue, and white, and red, Waving from balcony, and spire, and mast; Which told us that war's wintry storm had fled, And spring was more than spring to us at last.

Today the nation's heart lies crushed and weak; Drooping and draped in black our banners stand. Too stunned to cry revenge, we scarce may speak The grief that chokes all utterance through the land. God is in all. With tears our eyes are dim, Yet strive through darkness to look to Him!

No, not in vain he died—not all in vain, Our good, great President! This people's hands Are linked together in one mighty chain Drawn tighter still in triple-woven bands To crush the fiends in human masks, whose might We suffer, oh, too long! No league, nor truce Save men with men! The devils we must fight With fire! God wills it in this deed. This use We draw from the most impious murder done Since Calvary. Rise then, O Countrymen! Scatter these marsh-lights hopes of Union won Through pardoning clemency. Strike, strike again! Draw closer round the foe a girdling flame. We are stabbed whene'er we spare—strike in God's name!







George Henry Boker, born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, on the 6th day of October, 1823. Graduated at Princeton in 1842, and afterward studied law. In the year 1847, after his return from an extended tour in Europe, he published The Lessons of Life and Other Poems. He also produced a number of plays which were successfully produced upon the stage, both in England and America. During the War of the Rebellion he wrote a number of patriotic lyrics, collected and published in a volume under the title of Poems of the War. He has also written other poems and articles in prose which have received high praise.

In the year 1871 he was appointed by President Grant as our United States Minister to Turkey, but in 1875 was transferred to the more important Mission of Russia.

LINCOLN

Crown we our heroes with a holier wreath Than man e'er wore upon this side of death; Mix with their laurels deathless asphodels, And chime their paeans from the sacred bells! Nor in your praises forget the martyred Chief, Fallen for the gospel of your own belief, Who, ere he mounted to the people's throne, Asked for your prayers, and joined in them his own. I knew the man. I see him, as he stands With gifts of mercy in his outstretched hands; A kindly light within his gentle eyes, Sad as the toil in which his heart grew wise; His lips half parted with the constant smile That kindled truth, but foiled the deepest guile; His head bent forward, and his willing ear Divinely patient right and wrong to hear: Great in his goodness, humble in his state, Firm in his purpose, yet not passionate, He led his people with a tender hand, And won by love a sway beyond command. Summoned by lot to mitigate a time Frenzied with rage, unscrupulous with crime, He bore his mission with so meek a heart That Heaven itself took up his people's part; And when he faltered, helped him ere he fell, Eking his efforts out by miracle. No king this man, by grace of God's intent; No, something better, freeman,—President! A nature modeled on a higher plan, Lord of himself, an inborn gentleman!







Phoebe Cary was born near Cincinnati, Ohio, September 24, 1824. Her advantages for education were somewhat better than those of her sister Alice, whose almost inseparable companion she became at an early age. They were quite different, however, in temperament, in person and in mental constitution. Phoebe began to write verse at the age of seventeen years, and one of her earliest poems, Nearer Home, beginning with "One sweetly solemn thought," won her a world-wide reputation. In the joint housekeeping in New York she took from choice (Alice being for many years an invalid) the larger share of duties upon herself, and hence found little opportunity for literary work. In society, however, she was brilliant, but at all times kindly. She wrote a touching tribute to her sister's memory, published in the Ladies' Repository a few days before her own death, which occurred at Newport, R. I., July 31, 1871. In the volume of Poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary (Philadelphia, 1850) but about one-third were written by Phoebe. Her independently published books are Poems and Parodies (1854), and Poems of Faith, Hope and Love (1868).

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

Our sun hath gone down at the noonday, The heavens are black; And over the morning the shadows Of night-time are back.

Stop the proud boasting mouth of the cannon, Hush the mirth and the shout; God is God! and the ways of Jehovah Are past finding out.

Lo! the beautiful feet on the mountains, That yesterday stood; The white feet that came with glad tidings Are dabbled in blood.

The Nation that firmly was settling The crown on her head, Sits, like Rizpah, in sackcloth and ashes, And watches her dead.

Who is dead? who, unmoved by our wailing Is lying so low? O, my Land, stricken dumb in your anguish, Do you feel, do you know?

Once this good man we mourn, overwearied, Worn, anxious, oppressed, Was going out from his audience chamber For a season to rest;

Unheeding the thousands who waited To honor and greet, When the cry of a child smote upon him And turned back his feet.

"Three days hath a woman been waiting," Said they, "patient and meek." And he answered, "Whatever her errand, Let me hear; let her speak!"

So she came, and stood trembling before him And pleaded her cause; Told him all; how her child's erring father Had broken the laws.

Humbly spake she: "I mourn for his folly, His weakness, his fall"; Proudly spake she: "he is not a TRAITOR, And I love him through all!"

Then the great man, whose heart had been shaken By a little babe's cry; Answered soft, taking counsel of mercy, "This man shall not die!"

Why, he heard from the dungeons, the rice-fields, The dark holds of ships; Every faint, feeble cry which oppression Smothered down on men's lips.

In her furnace, the centuries had welded Their fetter and chain; And like withes, in the hands of his purpose, He snapped them in twain.

Who can be what he was to the people; What he was to the State? Shall the ages bring to us another As good and as great?

Our hearts with their anguish are broken, Our wet eyes are dim; For us is the loss and the sorrow, The triumph for him!

For, ere this, face to face with his Father Our Martyr hath stood; Giving into his hand the white record With its great seal of blood!

That the hand which reached out of the darkness Hath taken the whole? Yea, the arm and the head of the people— The heart and the soul!

And that heart, o'er whose dread awful silence A nation has wept; Was the truest, and gentlest, and sweetest A man ever kept!





On the 22nd of October, 1887, this statue by Saint Gaudens was unveiled, Mr. Eli Bates donating $40,000 for that purpose. There is a vast oval of cut stone, thirty by sixty feet, the interior fashioned to form a classic bench, and the statue stands on a stone pedestal. The sculptor represents him as an orator, just risen from his chair, which is shown behind him, and waiting for the audience to become quiet before beginning his speech. The attitude is that always assumed by Lincoln at the beginning—one hand behind him, and the other grasping the lapel of his coat. He appears the very incarnation of rugged grandeur which held the master mind of this age.



Charles Graham Halpin (Miles O'Reilly) was born near Oldcastle, County of Meath, Ireland, November 20, 1829. Graduated from Trinity College, Dublin, in 1846. He entered the field of journalism as a profession and soon gained a reputation in England. Came to New York in 1852 and secured employment with the Herald, was later connected with other papers. Enlisted in April, 1861, and became lieutenant of Colonel Corcoran's 69th Regiment, rising to the rank of brigadier-general. He died in New York City, August 3, 1868.

LINCOLN

He filled the Nation's eyes and heart, An honored, loved, familiar name; So much a brother that his fame Seemed of our lives a common part.

His towering figure, sharp and spare, Was with such nervous tension strung, As if on each strained sinew swung The burden of a people's care.

His changing face, what pen can draw— Pathetic, kindly, droll or stern; And with a glance so quick to learn The inmost truth of all he saw.

Pride found no place to spawn Her fancies in his busy mind. His worth, like health or air, could find No just appraisal till withdrawn.

He was his country's—not his own; He had no wish but for the weak, Nor for himself could think or feel, But as a laborer for her throne.

Her flag upon the heights of power— Stainless and unassayed to place, To this one end his earnest face Was bent through every burdened hour.

. . . . .

But done the battle—won the strife; When torches light his vaulted tomb, Broad gems flash out and crowns illume The clay-cold brow undecked in life.

. . . . .

O, loved and lost! Thy patient toil Had robed our cause in victory's light; Our country stood redeemed and bright, With not a slave on all her soil.

'Mid peals of bells and cannon's bark, And shouting streets with flags abloom, Sped the shrill arrow of thy doom, And, in an instant, all was dark!

. . . . .

A martyr to the cause of man, His blood is Freedom's Eucharist, And in the world's great hero list His name shall lead the van.

Yes! ranked on Faith's white wings unfurled In Heaven's pure light, of him we say, "He fell on the self-same day A Greater died to save the world."







He who seeks the embodiment of the genius of the Union finds it in the apotheosis of the Great Emancipator. There, under the arching skies he stands, erect, serene, resplendent; beneath his feet the broken shackles of a race redeemed; upon his brow the diadem of liberty with law, while around and behind him rise up, as an eternal guard of honor, the great army of the Republic.

In the belief that from the martyr's bier as from the battlefield of right it is but one step to paradise, may we not, on days like this, draw back the veil that separates from our mortal gaze the phantom squadrons as they pass again in grand review before their "Martyr President."—From an address by Hiram F. Stevens, read before the Minnesota Commandery of the Loyal Legion.

THE MARTYR PRESIDENT

In solid platoons of steel, Under heaven's triumphant arch, The long lines break and wheel, And the order is "Forward, March!" The colors ripple o'erhead, The drums roll up to the sky, And with martial time and tread The regiments all pass by— The ranks of the faithful dead Meeting their president's eye. March on, your last brave mile! Salute him, star and lace! Form 'round him, rank and file, And look on the kind, rough face. But the quaint and homely smile Has a glory and a grace It has never known erstwhile, Never in time or space. Close 'round him, hearts of pride! Press near him, side by side! For he stands there not alone. For the holy right he died, And Christ, the crucified, Waits to welcome his own.



ABRAHAM LINCOLN

Written for the Lincoln Memorial Album, by Eugene J. Hall, 1882.

O honored name, revered and undecaying, Engraven on each heart, O soul sublime! That, like a planet through the heavens straying, Outlives the wreck of time!

O rough, strong soul, your noble self-possession Is unforgotten. Still your work remains. You freed from bondage and from vile oppression A race in clanking chains.

O furrowed face, beloved by all the nation! O tall gaunt form, to memory fondly dear! O firm, bold hand, our strength and our salvation! O heart that knew no fear!

Lincoln, your manhood shall survive forever, Shedding a fadeless halo round your name; Urging men on, with wise and strong endeavor, To bright and honest fame!

Through years of care, to rest and joy a stranger, You saw complete the work you had begun, Thoughtless of threats, nor heeding death or danger, You toiled till all was done.

You freed the bondman from his iron master, You broke the strong and cruel chains he wore, You saved the Ship of State from foul disaster And brought her safe to shore.

You fell! An anxious nation's hopes seemed blighted, While millions shuddered at your dreadful fall; But God is good! His wondrous hand has righted And reunited all.

You fell, but in your death you were victorious; To moulder in the tomb your form has gone, While through the world your great soul grows more glorious As years go gliding on!

All hail, great Chieftain! Long will sweetly cluster A thousand memories round your sacred name, Nor time, nor death shall dim the spotless luster That shines upon your fame.







Samuel Francis Smith, clergyman, born in Boston, Massachusetts, October 21, 1808. Attended the Boston Latin School in 1820-5, and was graduated at Harvard in 1829 and at Andover Theological Seminary in 1832. Was ordained to the ministry of the Baptist Church at Waterville, Maine, in 1834, where he occupied pastorates from 1834 until 1842, and at Newton, Massachusetts, 1842 to 1854. Was professor of languages in Waterville College while residing in that city, and there he also received the degree of D.D. in 1854.

He has done a large amount of literary work, mainly in the line of hymnology, his most popular composition being our national hymn, My Country, 'Tis of Thee, which was written while he was a theological student, and first sung at a children's celebration in the Park Street Church, Boston, July 4, 1832. The Morning Light is Breaking, was also written at the same place and time. His classmate, Oliver Wendell Holmes, in his reunion poem entitled The Boys, thus refers to him:

"And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith; Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith! But he chanted a song for the brave and the free— Just read on his medal, 'My Country, of Thee!'"

The following poem was written expressly for the exercises held on the Nineteenth Anniversary of President Lincoln's death, at his tomb, Springfield, Illinois, April 15, 1884.

THE TOMB OF LINCOLN

Grandeur and glory await around the bed Where sleeps in lowly peace the illustrious dead; He rose a meteor, upon wondering men, But rose in strength, never to set again. A king of men, though born in lowly state, A man sincerely good and nobly great; Tender, but firm; faithful and kind, and true, The Nation's choice, the Nation's Saviour, too; When Liberty and Truth shall reign for evermore, From Oregon to Florida's perpetual May, From Shasta's awful peak to Massachusetts Bay,— Then our children's children, by the cottage door, In the schoolroom, from the pulpit, at the bar, Shall look up to thee as to a beacon star, And deduce the lesson from thy life and death, That the patriot's lofty courage and the Christian's faith Conquer honors that outweigh ambition's gaudiest prize, Triumph o'er the grave, and open the gates of Paradise.

Schooled through life's early hardships to endure, To raise the oppressed, to save and shield the poor; Prudent in counsel, honest in debate, Patient to hear and judge, patient to wait; The calm, the wise, the witty and the proved, Whom millions honored, and whom millions loved; Swayed by no baleful lust of pride or power, The shining pageants of the passing hour,

Led by no scheming arts, no selfish aim, Ambitious for no pomp, nor wealth, nor fame, No planning hypocrite, no pliant tool, A high-born patriot, of Heaven's noblest school; Cool and unshaken in the maddest storm, For in the clouds he traced the Almighty's form; Worn with the weary heart and aching head, Worse than the picket, with his ceaseless tread,

He kept—as bound by some resistless fate— His broad, strong hand upon the helm of State; Nor turned, in fear, his heart or hope away, Till on the field his tent a ruin lay. His tent, a ruin; but the owner's name Stands on the pinnacle of human fame, Inscribed in lines of light, and nations see, Through him, the people's life and liberty.

What high ideas, what noble acts he taught! To make men free in life, and limb, and thought, To rise, to soar, to scorn the oppressor's rod, To live in grander life, to live for God; To stand for justice, freedom and the right, To dare the conflict, strong in God's own might; The methods taught by Him, by him were tried, And he, to conscience true, a martyr died.

As the great sun pursues his heavenly way And fills with life and joy the livelong day, Till, the full journey, in glory dressed, He seeks his crimson couch beneath the west; So, with his labor done, our hero sleeps; Above his tomb a ransomed Nation weeps; And grateful paeans o'er his ashes rise— Dear is his fame—his glory never dies.

Bring flowers, fresh flowers, bring plumes with nodding crests, To wreath the tomb where our great hero rests; Bring pipe and tabret, eloquence and song, And sound the loving tribute, loud and long; A Nation bows, and mourns his honored name, A Nation proudly keeps his deathless fame; Let vale and rock, and hill, and land, and sea His memory swell—the anthem of the free.







John Townsend Trowbridge, born September 18, 1827, in Ogden, New York. He lived the ordinary life of a country boy, going to school six months in the year till he was fourteen, after which he had to work on the farm in summer. His books had more interest to him than his work, and he managed to learn more out of school than in it. At sixteen he wrote articles in verse and prose for magazines and journals. He was a contributor to the Atlantic Monthly.

During the great rebellion, he wrote several stories of the war: The Drummer Boy, 1863, and The Three Scouts, 1865. On the return of peace he spent some four months in the principal southern States, for the purpose of gaining accurate views of the condition of society there after the war. He published the result of these observations June, 1866, in a volume entitled, The South. A collected edition of his poems was published in 1869, entitled The Vagabonds, and Other Poems.

LINCOLN

Heroic soul, in homely garb half hid, Sincere, sagacious, melancholy, quaint; What he endured, no less than what he did, Has reared his monument, and crowned him saint.







Kinahan Cornwallis was born in London, England, December 24, 1839. Entered British Colonial Civil Service; two years at Melbourne, Australia. Located in New York in 1860, one of the editors and correspondent of the Herald. Accompanied the Prince of Wales on his American tour. Admitted to the New York bar in 1863; financial editor and general editorial writer of New York Herald, 1860-69. Editor and proprietor of The Knickerbocker Magazine, afterward of The Albion. Since 1886 editor and proprietor Wall Street Daily Investigator, now Wall Street Daily Investor. Author of Howard Plunkett (a novel); an Australian poem, 1857. The New Eldorado, or British Columbia (Travels); Two Journeys to Japan; A Panorama of the New World; Wreck and Ruin, or Modern Society (novel); My Life and Adventures (story), 1859, also of many other histories and novels. Among his poet productions are The Song of America and Columbus, 1892; The Conquest of Mexico and Peru, 1893; The War for the Union, or the Duel Between North and South, 1899.

HOMAGE DUE TO LINCOLN

Well may we all to Lincoln homage pay, For patriotic duty points the way, And tells the story of the debt we owe— A debt of gratitude that all should know; And ne'er will perish that historic tale. To him, the Union's great defender, hail! Through battling years he steered the ship of state, And ever proved a captain just and great. Through storm and tempest, and unnumbered woes, While oft assailed in fury by his foes, He held his course, and triumphed over all, Responding ever to his country's call; And more divine than human seemed the deed When he the slave from hellish bondage freed, And from the South its human chattels tore. 'Twas his to Man his manhood to restore. That righteous action sealed rebellion's doom, And paved secession's pathway to the tomb. But, lo! when Peace with Union glory, came, And all the country rang with his acclaim— A reunited country, great and strong— A foul assassin marked him for his prey; A bullet sped, and Lincoln dying lay. Alas! Alas! that he should thus have died— His country's leader, and his country's pride! No deed more infamous than this— No fate more cruel and unjust than his— Can in the annals of the world be found. The Nation shuddered in its grief profound, And mourning emblems draped the country o'er Alas! Alas! its leader was no more! But still he lives in his immortal fame, And evermore will Glory gild his name, And keep his memory in eternal view, And o'er his grave unfading garlands strew.





It is within an inclosed cemetery, known as the Calton burying ground, which is separated from the Calton Hill by a wide thoroughfare. The statue is the work of an American sculptor, George E. Bissell. It is a fine bronze figure, and rests on a massive granite pedestal. The figure at the base is that of a freed negro holding up a wreath. On one face of the pedestal are Lincoln's words, "To preserve the jewel of liberty in the framework of freedom." The statue is a memorial not alone to Lincoln; the legend on the pedestal tells that this plot of ground was given by the lord provost and town council of Edinburgh to Wallace Bruce, United States Consul, and dedicated as a burial place for Scottish soldiers of the American Civil War, 1861-65. Cut in the granite are the names and records of Scots who fought to preserve the Union, and who have found their last resting place in this old burying ground at the Scottish capital.

David K. Watson was born near London, Madison County, Ohio, June 18, 1849. Moved to Columbus, Ohio, in 1875, where he now resides. Was Assistant United States District Attorney for the Southern District of Ohio from 1881 to 1885. Elected Attorney-General of Ohio in 1887 and re-elected in 1889. Member of the fifty-fourth Congress. Was member of the Commission to revise the Federal Statutes. Author of History of American Coinage and Watson on the Constitution of the United States.

THE SCOTLAND STATUE

O Scotland! It was a gracious act in thee To build a monument beside the sea To Lincoln, who wrote the word, And slavery's shackles fell From off a race Which ne'er before could tell What freedom was. To Lincoln, whose soul was great enough to know That beings born in likeness of their God Were meant to live as freemen, Not as slaves, and ruled by slavery's rod. To Lincoln, who more than any of his race Uplifted men and women to the place God made for them. To Lincoln, who never saw your land, And in whose veins no Scottish blood had run; But yet, because of deeds which he had done, His mighty name Had filled the world with fame And taught the people of each land That in God's hand Is held the destiny of races and of man.

Immortal patriot! through the mist of years That in the future are to come,— When we who saw thee here are gone,— We view thy heaven-aspiring tomb Illumined by the roseate dawn Of the millennial day, When Peace shall hold her sway, And bring Saturnian eras; when the roar O' the battle's thunder shall be heard no more.





The statue was unveiled May 30, 1911. It is the gift of Amos H. Van Horn, who died December 26, 1908. In his will he set aside $25,000 for a memorial to Abraham Lincoln, to be dedicated in memory of Lincoln Post, No. 11, Department of New Jersey, G. A. R., of which he was a charter member.



Joseph Fulford Folsom, Presbyterian clergyman, miscellaneous writer and local historian, is a native of Bloomfield, New Jersey. He is a direct descendant of John Folsom who arrived at Boston in the Diligent on August 10, 1638, and settled at Hingham, Massachusetts.

Mr. Folsom is the pastor of the Third Presbyterian Church, South, of Newark, New Jersey. He has served two terms as Chaplain General of the Order of the Founders and Patriots of America. Is Librarian and Recording Secretary of the New Jersey Historical Society. Edited and wrote three chapters of Bloomfield, Old and New, a history of that town published in 1912. Wrote the history of the churches of Newark, including the History of Newark, New Jersey, published in 1913. His poem, The Ballad of Daniel Bray, is found in the Patriotic Poems of New Jersey. He is an occasional writer of poems, and contributes regularly a column of historical matters, signed "The Lorist."

THE UNFINISHED WORK

The crowd was gone, and to the side Of Borglum's Lincoln, deep in awe, I crept. It seem'd a mighty tide Within those aching eyes I saw.

"Great heart," I said, "why grieve alway? The battle's ended and the shout Shall ring forever and a day,— Why sorrow yet, or darkly doubt?"

"Freedom," I plead, "so nobly won For all mankind, and equal right, Shall with the ages travel on Till time shall cease, and day be night."

No answer—then; but up the slope, With broken gait, and hands in clench, A toiler came, bereft of hope, And sank beside him on the bench.





Wendell Phillips Stafford, son of Frank and Sarah (Noyes) Stafford, born at Barre, Vermont, May 1, 1861. Educated at Barre Academy and St. Johnsbury Academy. Studied law and attended Boston University Law School, graduating therefrom in 1883. Admitted to the bar in 1883. Practiced law in St. Johnsbury until 1900. Was then appointed to the Supreme Court of Vermont. Appointed to the Supreme Court of the District of Columbia in 1904, which position he still holds.

Married February 24, 1886, to Miss Florence Sinclair Goss of St. Johnsbury. Has contributed to the Atlantic Monthly and other magazines. Publications: North Flowers (poems), 1902; Dorian Days (poems), 1909; Speeches, 1913.

ONE OF OUR PRESIDENTS

(See page 80)

He sits there on the low, rude, backless bench, With his tall hat beside him, and one arm Flung, thus, across his knee. The other hand Rests, flat, palm downward, by him on the seat. So AEsop may have sat; so Lincoln did. For all the sadness in the sunken eyes, For all the kingship in the uncrowned brow, The great form leans so friendly, father-like, It is a call to children. I have watched Eight at a time swarming upon him there, All clinging to him—riding upon his knees, Cuddling between his arms, clasping his neck, Perched on his shoulders, even on his head; And one small, play-stained hand I saw reached up And laid most softly on the kind bronze lips As if it claimed them. These were the children Of foreigners we call them, but not so They call themselves; for when we asked of one, A restless dark-eyed girl, who this man was, She answered straight, "One of our Presidents."

"Let all the winds of hell blow in our sails," I thought, "thank God, thank God the ship rides true!"





Frank Dempster Sherman, son of John Dempster and Lucy (McFarland) Sherman, was born May 6, 1860, at Peekskill, New York; educated at home and at Columbia and Howard Universities, and since 1886 connected with Columbia University where he is Professor of Graphics. Author of several volumes of poems which are published by Houghton-Mifflin Company, Boston.

Professor Sherman married, November 16, 1887, Juliet Durand, daughter of Rev. Cyrus Bervic and Sarah Elizabeth (Merserveau) Durand.

He is a member of the National Institute of Arts and Letters.

ON A BRONZE MEDAL OF LINCOLN

This bronze our Lincoln's noble head doth bear, Behold the strength and splendor of that face, So homely-beautiful, with just a trace Of humor lightening its look of care, With bronze indeed his memory doth share, This martyr who found freedom for a Race; Both shall endure beyond the time and place That knew them first, and brighter grow with wear. Happy must be the genius here that wrought These features of the great American Whose fame lends so much glory to our past— Happy to know the inspiration caught From this most human and heroic man Lives here to honor him while Art shall last.







Ella Wheeler [Wilcox] was born in Johnstown Centre, Wisconsin, in 1845. Was educated at the public schools at Windsor and at the University of Wisconsin. In 1884 she married Robert M. Wilcox. Contributed articles for newspapers at an early age and also wrote and published a number of books of poems.

THE GLORY THAT SLUMBERED IN THE GRANITE ROCK

A granite rock on the mountain side Gazed on the world and was satisfied; It watched the centuries come and go— It welcomed the sunlight, and loved the snow, It grieved when the forest was forced to fall, But smiled when the steeples rose, white and tall, In the valley below it, and thrilled to hear The voice of the great town roaring near.

When the mountain stream from its idle play Was caught by the mill-wheel, and borne away And trained to labor, the gray rock mused: "Tree and verdure and stream are used By man, the master, but I remain Friend of the Mountain, and Star, and Plain; Unchanged forever, by God's decree, While passing centuries bow to me!"

Then, all unwarned, with a heavy shock Down from the mountain was wrenched the rock. Bruised and battered and broken in heart, He was carried away to a common mart. Wrecked and ruined in peace and pride, "Oh, God is cruel!" the granite cried; "Comrade of Mountain, of Star the friend— By all deserted—how sad my end!"

A dreaming sculptor, in passing by, Gazed on the granite with thoughtful eye; Then, stirred with a purpose supreme and grand, He bade his dream in the rock expand— And lo! from the broken and shapeless mass, That grieved and doubted, it came to pass That a glorious statue, of infinite worth— A statue of LINCOLN—adorned the earth.





This boulder had been for two hundred and fifty years a landmark near the Western shore of the Hudson River, opposite Upper Nyack. The school children of Nyack contributed the funds to remove it from its ancient bed and place it in front of the Nyack Carnegie Library, where it now stands and probably will stand for thousands of years to come, a monument to the memory of Abraham Lincoln.

The boulder contains the Gettysburg address and was dedicated June 13, 1908.

Louis Bradford Couch, born at East Lee, Massachusetts, October 1, 1851. Son of Bradford Milton and Lucy L. Couch. Educated in the public schools of Northampton, Massachusetts. Began the study of medicine in 1871, graduating with honors from the New York Homeopathic Medical College, March 4, 1874, being awarded the Allen gold medal for the best original investigations in medicine; he was graduated from the New York Ophthalmic Hospital, the same year, as an eye and ear surgeon. Practiced medicine for thirty-nine years at Nyack, New York. Served three years as one of the medical experts on the New York State Board of Health.

THE LINCOLN BOULDER

O Mighty Boulder, wrought by God's own hand, Throughout all future ages thou shalt stand A monument of honor to the brave Who yielded up their lives, their all, to save Our glorious country, and to make it free From bondsmen's tears and lash of slavery.

Securely welded to thy rugged breast, Through all the coming ages there shall rest Our Lincoln's tribute to a patriot band, The noblest ever penned by human hand.

The storms of centuries may lash and beat The granite face and bronze with hail and sleet; But futile all their fury. In a day The loyal sun will melt them all away.

Equal in death our gallant heroes sleep In Southern trench, home grave, or ocean deep; Equal in glory, fadeless as the light The stars send down upon them through the night. O priceless heritage for us to keep Our heroes' fame immortal while they sleep!

. . . . .

O God still guide us with thy loving hand, Keep and protect our glorious Fatherland.







James Arthur Edgerton, born at Plantsville, Ohio, January 30, 1869. Graduated at the Normal University, Lebanon, Ohio, in 1887. One year's post-graduate work, Marietta, Ohio, College. Editor county and state papers several years; on editorial staff of Denver News, 1899-1903; American Press Association, New York, 1904; Watson's Magazine, 1905. Editorial writer New York American, 1907; Secretary State Labor Bureau of Nebraska, 1895-9; received party vote for clerk United States House of Representatives. Author, Poems, 1889; A Better Day, 1890; Populist Hand-book for 1894; Populist Hand-book for Nebraska, 1895; Voices of the Morning, 1898; Songs of the People, 1902; Glimpses of the Real, 1903; In the Gardens of God, 1904.

WHEN LINCOLN DIED

When Lincoln died a universal grief Went round the earth. Men loved him in that hour. The North her leader lost, the South her friend; The nation lost its savior, and the slave Lost his deliverer, the most of all. Oh, there was sorrow mid the humble poor When Lincoln died!

When Lincoln died a great soul passed from earth, A great white soul, as tender as a child And yet as iron willed as Hercules. In him were strength and gentleness so mixed That each upheld the other. He possessed The patient firmness of a loving heart. In power he out-kinged emperors, and yet His mercy was as boundless as his power. And he was jovial, laughter loving; still His heart was ever torn with suffering. There was divine compassion in the man, A godlike love and pity for his race. The world saw the full measure of that love When Lincoln died.

When Lincoln died a type was lost to men. The earth has had her conquerors and kings And many of the common great. Through all She only had one Lincoln. There is none Like him in all the annals of the past. He was a growth of our new soil, a child Of our new time, a symbol of the race That freedom breeds; was of the lowest rank, And yet he scaled the highest height. Mankind one of its few immortals lost When Lincoln died.

When Lincoln died it seemed a providence, For he appeared as one sent for a work Whom, when that work was done, God summoned home. He led a splendid fight for liberty, And when the shackles fell the land was saved; He laid his armor by and sought his rest. A glory sent from heaven covered him When Lincoln died.







Amos Russell Wells was born at Glens Falls, New York, December 23, 1862. His mother removed to Yellow Springs, Ohio, when he was four years old, and he received his education at the public school there, afterward studying at Antioch College of that town, a college made illustrious by its first President, Horace Mann, who died there. Graduated in 1883, all by himself, later receiving as Master of Arts, also LL.D. He taught for a year in a country district school, then entered the faculty of his Alma Mater, where he was a tutor for nine years. Was professor of Greek, Geology and Astronomy. He joined the Christian Endeavor Society in 1888, and by it was led to become a member of the Presbyterian Church at Yellow Springs. When but a boy he began to write, and edited numerous journals. Later edited an amateur paper, also a town paper. His first paid contribution was a poem accepted in 1881 by The Christian Union, now The Outlook. Wrote articles often for The Golden Rule, now The Christian Endeavor World, and for the Sunday School Times.

In December, 1891, he went to Boston and became managing editor of The Golden Rule, a position which he still holds. Since then the paper has changed its name and three other papers added—The Junior Christian Endeavor World, Junior Work and Union Work, all edited by Mr. Wells. He is also Editorial Secretary of the United Society of Christian Endeavor and in editorial charge of all its publications.

Mr. Wells' first book, then entitled Golden Rule Meditations, but now The Upward Look, was published in 1893. Since then every year has seen from one to ten additions to his list of productions until they now number fifty-eight volumes in all. He is a director of the Union Rescue Mission and of the Chinese Mission of Boston. Is a member of the American Sunday-School Lesson Committee, an important part of his work being his association with Dr. F. N. Peloubet in writing the well-known Select Notes on the International Sunday-School Lessons.

HAD LINCOLN LIVED

Had Lincoln lived, How would his hand, so gentle yet so strong, Have closed the gaping wounds of ancient wrong; How would his merry jests, the way he smiled, Our sundered hearts to union have beguiled; How would the South from his just rule have learned That enemies to neighbors may be turned, And how the North, with his sagacious art, Have learned the power of a trusting heart; What follies had been spared us, and what stain, What seeds of bitterness that still remain, Had Lincoln lived!

With Lincoln dead, Ten million men in substitute for one Must do the noble deeds he would have done: Must lift the freedman with discerning care, Nor house him in a castle of the air; Must join the North and South in every good, Fused in co-operating brotherhood; Must banish enmity with his good cheer, And slay with sunshine every rising fear; Like him to dare, and trust, and sacrifice, Ten million lesser Lincolns must arise, With Lincoln dead.





The Lincoln Memorial will be the costliest monument to the memory of one man ever reared by a republic. The Capitol, at one end of the great parkway stretching from Capitol Hill to the Potomac, is a monument to the Government; the Lincoln Memorial, at the other end of that parkway, is a monument to the savior of that Government; and the Washington Monument, standing between, is a monument to its founder. The memorial will stand on a broad terrace 45 feet above grade. The colonnade will be 188 feet long and 118 feet wide, and will contain 36 columns, 44 feet high and 7 feet 5 inches in diameter at the base. Within the interior of the structure will be three halls. In the central hall, which will be 60 feet wide, 70 long, and 60 high, there will be a noble statue of Lincoln, while in the two side halls will be bronze tablets containing the Great Emancipator's second inaugural address and his Gettysburg speech. The George A. Fuller Company of Washington are the builders of the Memorial, which will be completed in 1917.

Samuel Green Wheeler Benjamin, born at Argos, Greece, February 13, 1837. Was United States Minister to Persia (1883-1885). Assistant Librarian in the New York State Library. In 1861-1864 sent two companies of cavalry to the war. Served in war hospitals, studied art. Art editor of American Department Magazine of Art, also of the New York Mail. Marine painter and illustrator. Among his numerous works in prose and verse are Art in America, Contemporary Art in Europe (1877); Constantinople (1860); Persia and the Persians (1866); The Choice of Paris (1870), a romance; Sea Spray (1887), a book for yachtsmen, etc.

LET HIS MONUMENT ARISE

Let his monument arise, Pointing upward to the skies, Founded by a nation's heart, Grandly shaped in every part By the master-minds of art, And consecrated by a nation's tears, To teach throughout the after-time, To every tribe, in every clime, That toil for others is sublime.



INDEX

ALLEN, LYMAN WHITNEY: sketch of, 80; poem, "Lincoln's Church in Washington," by, 81.

ALLEN, WILLIAM: sketch of, 173; poem, "Springfield's Welcome to Lincoln," by, 173.

ANTIETAM, LINCOLN AT: photograph, 115.

"ASSASSINATION OF LINCOLN, ON THE": poem by Henry De Garrs, 200.

B

BACHE, ANNA: poem, "Lincoln at Springfield, 1861," by, 65, 66.

BACON, HENRY, architect: Lincoln Memorial at Washington, by, 252.

BALL, THOMAS, sculptor: "Emancipation Group" in Boston by, 90; in Washington by, 188.

BATES, EDWARD, Attorney-General: portrait of, in "Lincoln and Cabinet," 206.

BAXTER, JAMES PHINNEY: sketch of 22; poem, "The Natal Day of Lincoln," by, 22.

BECKER, CHARLOTTE: sketch of, 61; poem, "Lincoln," by, 61.

BENJAMIN, SAMUEL GREEN WHEELER: sketch of, 253; poem, "Let His Monument Arise," by, 253.

BIBLE, THE: Lincoln's fondness for xvi, xxiii.

"BIRTH OF LINCOLN, THE": poem by George W. Crofts, 19.

BISSELL, GEORGE E., sculptor: statue of Lincoln by, 231.

BLAIR, MONTGOMERY, Postmaster-General: portrait of, in "Lincoln and Cabinet," 206.

BOKER, GEORGE HENRY: sketch of 208; poem, "Lincoln," by, 209.

BOOTH, EDWIN: Lincoln discusses his Hamlet, xvii-xix.

BOOTH, J. WILKES: assassin of Lincoln, 138.

BORGLUM, GUTZON, sculptor: statue of Lincoln by, 234, 236; marble head of Lincoln by, 240.

BOSTON: statue of Lincoln in, by Thomas Ball, 90.

"BOY LINCOLN, THE": picture by Eastman Johnson, 30.

BRADY, Washington photographer: portraits of Lincoln by, frontispiece, 20, 86, 93, 97, 103, 106, 108, 122, 124, 128, 134, 170, 210.

"BRONZE MEDAL OF LINCOLN, ON A": poem by Frank Dempster Sherman, 239.

BROWN, STUART: owner of Lincoln portrait, 82.

BROWN, THERON; sketch of, 94; poem, "The Liberator," by, 94.

BROWNE, CHARLES F., see WARD, ARTEMUS.

BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN: sketch of, 161; poem, "The Death of Lincoln," by, 161.

BUFFALO, N. Y.: Lincoln's obsequies at, 168.

BUGBEE, EMILY J.: "Poetical Tribute to the Memory of Abraham Lincoln," by, 201.

BURLEIGH, WILLIAM HENRY: sketch of, 53; poem, "Presidential Campaign, 1860," by, 53.

BURLINGTON, WIS.: statue of Lincoln in, by Ganiere, 228.

"BUT HERE'S AN OBJECT MORE OF DREAD": poem by Lincoln, viii.

C

CABIN, LOG, Lincoln's birthplace: picture, 13.

CABIN OF LINCOLN'S PARENTS: picture, 62; description, 63.

CAMPBELL, BLENDON, artist: "A Study of Lincoln" by, 249.

CAPITOL AT WASHINGTON, THE: description of, 72; picture of, 73.

CARPENTER, FRANK B., painter of "First Reading of the Emancipation Proclamation," xvii, 206; his account of Lincoln as a dramatic critic, xvii.

CARR, CLARENCE E.: sketch of, 20; poem, "Mendelssohn, Darwin, Lincoln," by, 21.

CARY, ALICE: sketch of, 130; poem, "Abraham Lincoln," by, 131.

CARY, PHOEBE, sketch of, 210; poem, "Abraham Lincoln," by, 211.

CASSIDY, THOMAS F.: tribute of, to the mother of Lincoln, 25.

CAWEIN, MADISON: sketch of, 56; poem, "Lincoln, 1809—February 12, 1909," by, 56.

"CENOTAPH OF LINCOLN, THE": poem by James Mackay, 181.

CHAPPLE, BENNETT: poem, "The Great Oak," by, 15.

"CHARACTERIZATION OF LINCOLN, A": poem by Hamilton Schuyler, 87.

CHASE, SALMON P., Secretary of the Treasury: portrait of, in "Lincoln and Cabinet," 206.

CHENEY, JOHN VANCE: sketch of, 76; poem, "Lincoln," by, 77.

CHICAGO: statue of Lincoln in, by Saint Gaudens, 214.

"CHILDREN ON THE BORGLUM STATUE": picture, 236.

CHOATE, ISAAC BASSETT: sketch of, 59; poem, "The Matchless Lincoln," by, 59.

CITY HALL, NEW YORK, N. Y.: picture and description of, at time of Lincoln obsequies, 162, 166.

CLAY, HENRY: Lincoln's regard for, vi; his eulogy of, xv.

CLENDENIN, HENRY WILSON: sketch of, 70; poem, "Lincoln Called to the Presidency," by, 70.

COOKE, ROSE TERRY: sketch of, 132; poem, "Abraham Lincoln," by, 133.

COOPER UNION SPEECH, by Lincoln; reference to, xii.

CORNWALLIS, KINAHAN: sketch of, 229; poem, "Homage Due to Lincoln," by, 229.

COUCH, LOUIS BRADFORD: sketch of, 244; poem, "The Lincoln Boulder," by, 244.

CRANCH, CHRISTOPHER PEARSE: sketch of, 206; poem, "Lincoln," by, 207.

CROFTS, GEORGE W.: sketch of, 19; poem, "The Birth of Lincoln," by, 19.

D

"DARWIN, MENDELSSOHN, LINCOLN": poem by Clarence E. Carr, 21; portraits of, 20.

DAVIS, NOAH: sketch of, 17; poem, "Lincoln," by, 17.

DEATH OF LINCOLN, 149.

"DEATH OF LINCOLN": poem by William Cullen Bryant, 161.

DEATHBED OF LINCOLN: picture of, 144; poem on, 145.

DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE: Lincoln on, 68.

"DEDICATION POEM" of Lincoln Monument at Springfield, Ill., by James Judson Lord, 183.

DICKINSON, CHARLES MONROE: sketch of, 136; poem, "Abraham Lincoln," by, 136.

"DIOGENES AND HIS LANTERN": campaign cartoon of 1860, 55.

DOUGLAS, STEPHEN A., Senator: Lincoln's opposition to, xvi; attitude of, on the Dred Scott Decision, opposed by Lincoln, 42.

DRED SCOTT DECISION: reference to, 42.

DUNBAR, PAUL LAWRENCE: sketch of, 128; poem, "Lincoln," by, 129.

E

EDGERTON, JAMES ARTHUR: sketch of, 247; poem, "When Lincoln Died," by, 247.

EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND: Statue of Lincoln in, by Bissell, 231.

"EMANCIPATION GROUP," statuary designed by Thomas Ball: in Boston, 90; in Washington, 188; poem on, by John Greenleaf Whittier, 91.

"EMANCIPATION PROCLAMATION, FIRST READING OF THE": painting by Frank B. Carpenter, 206.

"ENGLAND'S SORROW": poem in London Fun, 153.

EUCLID: see GEOMETRY.

"EYES OF LINCOLN, THE": poem by Walt Mason, 121.

F

FASSETT, S. M., Chicago photographer: portrait of Lincoln in 1858, by, 71.

"FIRST READING OF THE EMANCIPATION PROCLAMATION": painting by Frank B. Carpenter, 206.

FLANNERY, LOTT, sculptor: statue of Lincoln by, 199.

FOLSOM, JOSEPH FULFORD: sketch of, 234; poem, "The Unfinished Work," by, 235.

FOLTZ, CHARLES G.: sketch of, 98; poem, "On Freedom's Summit," by, 98.

FORD'S THEATRE: picture of, 138.

FRENCH, DANIEL CHESTER, sculptor: statue of Lincoln by, 226.

FUN, LONDON: poem, "England's Sorrow" in, 153.

FUNERAL OF LINCOLN, THE, in White House: picture, 154.

"FUNERAL CAR OF LINCOLN": picture of, 158; poem by Richard Henry Stoddard on, 159.

"FUNERAL HYMN OF LINCOLN": poem by Phineas Densmore Gurley, 155.

G

GANIERE, GEORGE E., sculptor: statue of Lincoln by, 228.

GARDNER, Washington photographer: portraits of Lincoln by, 88, 95, 112, 118, 130, 132.

GARRS, HENRY DE: sketch of, 200; poem, "On the Assassination of Lincoln," by, 200.

GELERT, JOHANNES, sculptor: bust of Lincoln by, iv, v.

GENTRY, MATTHEW, insane friend of Lincoln: poem by Lincoln on, vii-ix.

GEOMETRY: favorite study of Lincoln, xii, 63.

GETTYSBURG, LINCOLN'S SPEECH AT: in prose form, 100; comment by William H. Lambert on, 101; in verse form, xii.

"GETTYSBURG ODE"; poem by Bayard Taylor, 102.

GILDER, RICHARD WATSON: sketch of, 45; poem, "On the Life-Mask of Abraham Lincoln," by, 45.

GILMER, photographer: ambrotype of Lincoln, 1858, by, 40.

"GLORY, THE, THAT SLUMBERED IN THE GRANITE ROCKS": poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox, 241.

GOULD, ELIZABETH PORTER: sketch of, 41; poem, "The Voice of Lincoln," by, 41.

"GRAVE OF LINCOLN, THE": views of, 178, 180, 182; poem on, by Edna Dean Proctor, 186.

"GREAT OAK, THE," poem by Bennett Chapple, 14.

GUITERMAN, ARTHUR: sketch of, 123; poem, "He Leads Us Still," by, 123.

GURLEY, PHINEAS DENSMORE: sketch of, 155; poem, "The Funeral Hymn of Lincoln," by, 155.

H

"HAD LINCOLN LIVED": Poem by Amos Russell Wells, 251.

HAGEDORN, HERMANN: sketch of, 107; poem, "Oh, Patient Eyes!" by, 107.

HALL, EUGENE J.: poem, "Abraham Lincoln," by, 220.

HALPIN, CHARLES GRAHAM ("Miles O'Reilly"): sketch of, 215; poem, "Lincoln," by, 216.

"HAND OF LINCOLN, THE": cast by Leonard W. Volk, 46; poem on, by Edmund Clarence Stedman, 47.

HANKS, NANCY: see LINCOLN, NANCY HANKS.

HAY, JOHN, secretary of Lincoln: portrait of, 67.

"HE LEADS US STILL": poem by Arthur Guiterman, 123.

HERNDON, WILLIAM H., law partner of Lincoln: presents Lincoln's office chair to O. H. Oldroyd, 36.

HESLER, Chicago photographer: portrait of Lincoln in 1860, by, 58.

HICKS, painter of Lincoln portrait lithographed for campaign of 1860, 49.

HODGENVILLE, KY.: statue of Lincoln in, by Weinman, 126.

HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL: sketch of, 170; poem, "Services in Memory of Abraham Lincoln," by, 171; his "Last Leaf," a favorite poem of Lincoln, xi, xxi.

"HOMAGE DUE TO LINCOLN": poem by Kinahan Cornwallis, 229.

"HONEST ABE": campaign cartoon of 1860, 55.

"HONEST ABE OF THE WEST": poem by Edmund Clarence Stedman, 51.

HOOPER, LUCY HAMILTON: sketch of, 175; poem, "Lincoln," by, 176.

"HORATIAN ODE, AN": poem by Richard Henry Stoddard, 29, 159, 193.

HOSMER, FREDERICK LUCIAN: sketch of, 134; poem, "Lincoln," by, 135.

"HOUSE WHERE LINCOLN DIED, THE": picture of, 150; poem by Robert Mackay on, 151; Oldroyd collection of Lincoln Memorials at, Foreword.

HOWE, JULIA WARD: sketch of, 14; poem, "Lincoln," by, 14.

I

INDEPENDENCE HALL, PHILADELPHIA: speech of Lincoln at, 68; picture of, 69.

INGMIRE, F. W., photographer: picture of Lincoln Homestead at time of Lincoln's funeral, 172.

"IN TOKEN OF RESPECT": poem, 152.

J

JOHNSON, EASTMAN: picture, "The Boy Lincoln," by, 30.

JOHNSON, WILLIAM, literary friend of Lincoln: Lincoln's letters to, v-ix.

JOHNSTON, JAMES NICOLL: sketch of, 168; poem, "Requiem," by, 169.

K

KIMBALL, HARRIET MCEWEN: sketch of, 157; poem, "Rest, Rest, for Him," by, 157.

KNOX, WILLIAM, Scotch poet: favorite of Lincoln, vi; his poem, "Oh Why Should the Spirit of Mortal Be Proud," ix.

L

LAMBERT, WILLIAM H.: on Lincoln's Speech at Gettysburg, 101.

LARCOM, LUCY, sketch of, 164; poem, "Tolling," by, 165.

"LAST LEAF, THE," by O. W. Holmes: favorite poem of Lincoln, xi, xxi.

"LEADER OF HIS PEOPLE": poem by William Wilberforce Newton, 32.

LEIGHTON, ROBERT: poem, "Sic Semper Tyrannis!" by, 139.

"LET THE PRESIDENT SLEEP": poem by James M. Stewart, 179.

"LET HIS MONUMENT ARISE": poem by Samuel Green Wheeler Benjamin, 253.

"LIBERATOR, THE": poem by Theron Brown, 94.

"LIFE-MASK OF LINCOLN, THE": cast by Leonard W. Volk, 44; poem on, by Richard Watson Gilder, 45.

LINCOLN, ABRAHAM: poems by, v-ix; speeches by, xii-xiv, xv-xvii, xix, xxi-xxiii; lectures by, xix, xx; his favorite poems, vi, ix-xi, xxi; his moral character, xiv-xvii; his literary inspirations, xii, xvi-xix, xxiii, 17; as a dramatic critic, xvii-xix; as a literary artist, xix-xxiii; his taste for humor, xx; birth 13, 14, 15, 17, 19, 21, 22, 74, 109; youth, 14, 17, 29, 31, 32, 46, 47, 142; education, 17, 22, 23, 31, 32, 35; profession, 34, 36, 37, 147, 148; religion, 17, 18, 41, 65, 66, 79, 81, 84, 85, 99, 105, 114, 125, 135, 223; statecraft, 14, 18, 23, 29, 33, 37, 38, 42, 47, 48, 57, 59, 70, 75, 77, 78, 83, 91, 94, 95, 96, 98, 110, 116, 119, 127, 129, 131, 136, 141, 148, 161, 163, 183, 189, 193, 209, 220, 223, 229, 232, 241; character, 43, 45, 48, 51, 54, 56, 61, 74, 87, 89, 107, 109, 113, 116, 121, 123, 125, 127, 131, 133, 135, 136, 139, 141, 148, 174, 176, 189, 200, 201, 209, 211, 216, 220, 223, 227, 239, 241; death, 15, 18, 24, 29, 31, 61, 75, 92, 99, 137, 138-207, 211, 219, 230, 247, 251.

"LINCOLN": title of poems by Becker, Charlotte, 61; Boker, George Henry, 209; Cheney, John Vance, 77; Cranch, Christopher Pearse, 207; Dunbar, Paul Lawrence, 129; Davis, Noah, 17; Halpin, Charles Graham, 216; Hooper, Lucy Hamilton, 176; Hosmer, Frederick Lucian, 135; Howe, Julia Ward, 14; Mitchell, S. Weir, 125; Monroe, Harriet, 119; Smith, Wilbur Hazelton, 35; Trowbridge, John Townsend, 227.

"LINCOLN, ABRAHAM": title of poems by, Cary, Alice, 131; Cary, Phoebe, 211; Cooke, Rose Terry, 133; Dickinson, Charles Monroe, 136; Hall, Eugene J., 200; Sangster, Margaret Elizabeth, 109; Townsend, George Alfred, 127.

"LINCOLN, ABRAHAM, FOULLY ASSASSINATED": cartoon in London Punch, 140; poem by Tom Taylor on, 141.

LINCOLN, AMBROTYPES OF: 34, 40, 42, 52.

"LINCOLN AND CABINET": painting by Frank B. Carpenter, 206.

"LINCOLN AND STANTON": poem by Marion Mills Miller, 148.

"LINCOLN AS CANDIDATE FOR SENATOR": ambrotype by Gilmer, 1858, 40.

"LINCOLN AT SPRINGFIELD, 1861": poem by Anna Bache, 66.

"LINCOLN AT THE TIME OF DEBATE WITH DOUGLAS": ambrotype in 1858, 42.

LINCOLN, BAS-RELIEF HEAD OF: by James W. Tuft, 246.

LINCOLN, BUST OF: by Johannes Gelert, iv.

"LINCOLN BY THE CABIN FIRE": picture, 16.

"LINCOLN CALLED TO THE PRESIDENCY": poem by Henry Wilson Clendenin, 70.

LINCOLN, CARTOONS OF: "Abraham Lincoln Foully Assassinated," 140; "Honest Abe," 55.

"LINCOLN, 1809—FEBRUARY 12, 1909" poem by Madison Cawein, 56.

"LINCOLN, 1865": poem by John Nichol, 204.

LINCOLN, DEATH OF, 149.

LINCOLN, HAND OF: cast by Leonard W. Volk, 46.

LINCOLN, HEAD OF: in marble, by Borglum, at Washington, 240.

"LINCOLN IN HIS OFFICE CHAIR": poem by James Riley, 37.

LINCOLN, LIFE-MASK OF: by Leonard W. Volk, 44.

LINCOLN, MEDALLION OF: Bronze Head in Commemoration of Lincoln Centenary, 238.

"LINCOLN, MENDELSSOHN, DARWIN": poem by Clarence E. Carr, 21; portraits of, 20.

LINCOLN, MONUMENTS OF: Lincoln Memorial at Washington, by Bacon, Henry, 252; Lincoln Monument in Springfield, Ill., by Mead, Larken G., 182.

LINCOLN, OFFICE CHAIR OF: picture, 36.

LINCOLN, PHOTOGRAPHS OF: Brady's, frontispiece, 20, 86, 93, 97, 103, 106, 108, 122, 124, 128, 134, 170, 210; Fassett's, 71; Gardner's, 88, 95, 112, 118, 130, 132; Gilmer's, 40; Hesler's, 58; by unidentified photographers, 34, 42, 52, 60, 67, 82, 84, 120.

LINCOLN, PICTURES OF: "Boy Lincoln, The," by Eastman Johnson, 30; "Lincoln, by the Cabin Fire," 16; "Rail Splitter, The," 28.

"LINCOLN, POETIC SPIRIT OF": introduction by Marion Mills Miller, v.

LINCOLN, PORTRAIT PAINTINGS OF: "A Study of Lincoln," by Campbell, Blendon, 249; in "Lincoln and Cabinet," by Carpenter, Frank B., 206; by Hicks, 49.

"LINCOLN, PRESIDENT, TO," poem by Edmund Ollier, 96.

"LINCOLN'S CHURCH IN WASHINGTON": picture of, 79; poem by Lyman Whitney Allen, 81.

"LINCOLN, SOLDIER OF CHRIST": poem in Macmillan's Magazine, 85.

LINCOLN, SPEECHES OF: in Independence Hall, Philadelphia, 68; on leaving Springfield, 65.

LINCOLN, STUDIES OF: by Ball, in Boston, 90, and in Washington, 188; by Bissell, in Edinburgh, Scotland, 231; by Borglum in Newark, N. J., 234, 236; by Flannery, in Washington, 199; by French, in Lincoln, Neb., 226; by Ganiere, in Burlington, Wis., 228; by Niehaus, in Muskegon, Mich., 203; by Ream, in Washington, 222; by Rogers, in Philadelphia, 208; by Saint Gaudens, in Chicago, 214; by Weinman, in Hodgenville, Ky., 126; by Volk, 192.

"LINCOLN THE LABORER": poem by Richard Henry Stoddard, 29.

"LINCOLN THE MAN OF THE PEOPLE": poem by Edwin Markham, 74.

"LINCOLN BOULDER, THE": picture of, 243; poem on, by Louis Bradford Couch, 244.

LINCOLN HOMESTEAD, Springfield, Ill.: picture of, in 1861, 64; in 1865, 172.

LINCOLN, NANCY HANKS, mother of Lincoln: tomb of, 25; poem on, by Harriet Monroe, 26.

LINCOLN, NEB.: statue of Lincoln in, by French. 226.

LINCOLN, SARAH BUSH, stepmother of Lincoln: cabin of, 62; her parting from Lincoln, 63.

LINCOLN, THOMAS, father of Lincoln: cabin of, 62, 63.

LINCOLN, THOMAS ("Tad"), son of Lincoln: portrait of, 103.

LOCKE, DAVID R., see NASBY, PETROLEUM V.

"LOG CABIN, THE," birthplace of Lincoln: picture of, 13.

LORD, JAMES JUDSON: sketch of, 183; poem at dedication of Lincoln Monument at Springfield, Ill., by, 183.

LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL: sketch of, 189; poem, "Commemoration Ode," by, 189.

M

MACKAY, JAMES: sketch of, 181; poem, "The Cenotaph of Lincoln," by, 181.

MACKAY, ROBERT: sketch of, 151; poem, "The House where Lincoln Died," by, 151.

MACMILLAN'S MAGAZINE: poem, "Lincoln, Soldier of Christ," in, 85.

"MAN LINCOLN, THE": poem by Wilbur Dick Nesbit, 113.

MARKHAM, EDWIN: sketch of, 74; poem, "Lincoln the Man of the People," by, 74.

"MARTYR PRESIDENT, THE": poem, 219.

MASON, WALT: sketch of, 121; poem, "The Eyes of Lincoln," by, 121.

"MASTER, THE": poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson, 116.

"MATCHLESS LINCOLN, THE": poem by Isaac Bassett Choate, 59.

MEAD, LARKEN G., architect: Lincoln Monument at Springfield, Ill., by, 182.

"MENDELSSOHN, DARWIN, LINCOLN": poem by Clarence E. Carr, 21; portraits of, 20.

MILLER, MARION MILLS: editorial assistance by, in "The Poets' Lincoln," Acknowledgment; introduction by, v; sketch of, 146; poem, "Lincoln and Stanton," by, 148.

MITCHELL, S. WEIR: sketch of, 125; poem, "Lincoln," by, 125.

MONROE, HARRIET: sketch of, 26; poems, "Nancy Hanks," 26, and "Lincoln," 119.

MUSKEGON, MICH.: statue of Lincoln in, by Niehaus, 203.

"MY CHILDHOOD'S HOME I SEE AGAIN": poem by Lincoln, vi.

N

"NASBY, PETROLEUM V." (David R. Locke), humorist: Lincoln's fondness for, xx.

"NATAL DAY OF LINCOLN, THE": poem by James Phinney Baxter, 22.

NESBIT, WILBUR DICK: sketch of, 113; poem, "The Man Lincoln," by, 113.

NEWARK, N. J., Statue of Lincoln in, by Borglum, 234, 236.

NEWTON, WILLIAM WILBERFORCE: sketch of, 32; poem, "Leader of His People," by, 32.

NEW YORK AVENUE PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH, WASHINGTON: picture of, 79.

NEW YORK CITY: obsequies of Lincoln at, 162, 166.

NICHOL, JOHN: sketch of, 204; poem, "Lincoln, 1865," by, 204.

NICOLAY, JOHN G., secretary of Lincoln: his account of Lincoln's lectures, xix; portrait of, 67.

NIEHAUS, CHARLES, sculptor: statue of Lincoln by, 202.

NYACK, N. Y.: Lincoln Boulder at, 243.

O

OAK RIDGE CEMETERY, SPRINGFIELD, ILL.: views in, 178, 180.

"O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!" poem by Walt Whitman, 197.

"ODE" on Lincoln's obsequies: by Henry T. Tuckerman, 163.

"OH, PATIENT EYES!" poem by Hermann Hagedorn, 107.

"OH, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD?" by William Knox, favorite poem of Lincoln, vi, ix.

OLDROYD, OSBORN H.: editor of "The Poets' Lincoln"; his purpose, Foreword; his collection of Lincoln memorials, Foreword; owner of Lincoln's office chair, 36.