Lincoln Day Entertainments. Various

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 moulds 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.

       * * * * *

       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 all are 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.

      OUR ABRAHAM

      OUT of the mellow West there came

       A man whom neither praise nor blame

       Could gild or tarnish; one who rose

       With fate-appointed swiftness far

       Above his friends, above his foes;

       Whose life shone like a splendid star,

       To fill his people's hearts with flame;

       Who never sought for gold or fame;

       But gave himself without a price—

       A willing, humble sacrifice—

       An erring Nation's Paschal Lamb—

       The great, gaunt, patient Abraham.

       I never saw his wrinkled face,

       Where tears and smiles disputed place;

       I never touched his homely hand,

       That seemed in benediction raised,

       E'en when it emphasized command,

       What time the fires of battle blazed,

       The hand that signed the act of grace

       Which freed a wronged and tortured race;

       And yet I feel that he is mine—

       My country's; and that light divine

       Streams from the saintly oriflamme

       Of great, gaunt, patient Abraham.

       He was our standard-bearer; he

       Caught up the thread of destiny,

       And round the breaking Union bound

       And wove it firmly. To his task

       He rose gigantic; nor could sound

       Of menace daunt him. Did he ask

       For homage when glad Victory

       Followed his flags from sea to sea?

       Nay, but he staunched the wounds of war;

       And you owe all you have and are—

       And I owe all I have and am

       To great, gaunt, patient Abraham.

       The pillars of our temple rocked

       Beneath the mighty wind that shocked

       Foundations that the fathers laid;

       But he upheld the roof and stood

       Fearless, while others were afraid;

       His sturdy strength and faith were good,

       While coward knees together knocked,

       And traitor hands the door unlocked,

       To let the unbeliever in.

       He bore the burden of our sin,

       While the rebel voices rose to damn

       The great, gaunt, patient Abraham.

       And then he died a martyr's death—

       Forgiveness in his latest breath,

       And peace upon his dying lips.

       He died for me; he died for you;

       Heaven help us if his memory slips

       Out of our hearts! His soul was true

       And clean and beautiful. What saith

       Dull history that reckoneth

       But coldly? That he was a man

       Who loved his fellows as few can;

       And that he hated every sham—

       Our great, gaunt, patient Abraham.

       Majestic, sweet, was Washington;

       And Jefferson was like the sun—

       He glorified the simplest thing

       He touched; and Andrew Jackson seems

       The impress of a fiery king

       To leave upon us: these in dreams

       Are oft before us; but the one

       Whose vast work was so simply done—

       The Lincoln of our war-tried years—

       Has all our deepest love; in tears,

       We chant the In Memoriam

       Of great, gaunt, patient Abraham.

      LINCOLN, THE MAN OF THE PEOPLE[D]

      Edwin Markham

      This poem, which is considered one of the two best tributes ever paid to Lincoln, the other being Walt Whitman's O Captain! My Captain! is a tremendously virile and earnest summing up of the meaning of the man (Lincoln) and his life; a lesson in patriotism and a masterful piece of hero worship.

      WHEN