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«псон.

(This is the remarkable poem in which, on fay 6, 1865, London Punch confessed its error, fter having for four years lampooned Lincoln with pencil and with pen. In this change of ntiment Punch merely reflected the prevalent ritish temper, which, fiercely and contemptuusly hostile to the National cause and the nion leaders during the earlier and critical rt of the death grapple, swung toward the ictor North at the end.)

You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier, You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace, Broad for the 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 prizè 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 a 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, ན་ ་ ་ ་ Say, scurril-jester, is there room for you?

Yes, he had lived to shame me from my sneer, To lame my pencil, and confute my penTo make me own this hind of princes peer, This railsplitter 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 handAs 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 turns the laborer's ax, The rapid that o'erbears the boatman's toil, The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's 'tracks,

The ambushed Indian and the prowling bearSuch 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-fortune, 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 darkling 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

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 asassin'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!

death, plain, just and recolate, under whose cautions