1 Lid World and Old Glory

And, with heart and hand, to be
Earnest to make others free!

They are slaves who fear to speak
For the fallen and the weak;

They are slaves who will not choose
Hatred, scoffing, and abuse,

Rather than in silence shrink

From the truth they needs must think:
They are slaves who dare not be
In the right with two or three.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Abraham Lincoln

This man whose homely face you look upon,
Was one of nature's masterful, great men;
Born with strong arms, that unfought battles

won;

Direct of speech, and cunning with the pen. Chosen for large designs, he had the art

Of winning with his humor, and he went Straight to his mark, which was the human heart; Wise, too, for what he could not break he bent. Upon his back a more than Atlas-load,

The burden of the Commonwealth, was laid; He stooped, and rose up to it, though the road Shot suddenly downwards, not a whit dismayed.

Hold, warriors, councillors, kings! All now give New

place

To this dear benefactor of the race.

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

World and Ola Glory

Lincoln the Great Commoner

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 com
pelled

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 the snow that hides all scars;

New The loving kindness of the wayside well;
The tolerance and equity of light

World

and Old

Glory

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 to the 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,
Wrenching the rafters from their ancient hold,
He held the ridgepole 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.
EDWIN MARKHAM-

Abraham Lincoln

(Summer, 1865.)

Dead is the roll of the drums,
And the distant thunders die,
They fade in the far-off sky;
And a lovely summer comes,

Like the smile of Him on high.

How the tall white daisies grow, Where the grim artillery rolled! (Was it only a moon ago?

It seems a century old,)

And the bee hums in the clover,
As the pleasant June comes on;
Aye, the wars are all over,—

But our good Father is gone.

There was tumbling of traitor fort,
Flaming of traitor fleet-

Lighting of city and port,

Clasping in square and street.

There was thunder of mine and gun,
Cheering by mast and tent,—
When his dread work all done,-

And his high fame full won—

Died the Good President

New World and Old Glory

New World and Old

Glory

And our boys had fondly thought,
To-day, in marching by,

From the ground so dearly bought,
And the fields so bravely fought,

To have met their Father's eye.

But they may not see him in place
Nor their ranks be seen of him;
We look for the well-known face,
And the splendor is strangely dim.
Perished?-who was it said
Our Leader had passed away?
Dead?

Our President dead?

He has not died for a day!

We mourn for a little breath

Such as, late or soon, dust yields;
But the Dark Flower of Death
Blooms in the fadeless fields.

We looked on a cold, still brow,
But Lincoln could yet survive;
He never was more alive,
Never nearer than now.

For the pleasant season found him,
Guarded by faithful hands,

In the fairest of Summer Lands;
With his own brave Staff around him,
There our President stands.