| 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 prize as debonair, |
| Of power or will to shine, of art to please! |
| |
| You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh, |
| Judging each step, as though the way were plain; |
| Reckless, so it could point its paragraph, |
| Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain! |
| |
| Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet |
| The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew, |
| Between the mourners at his head and feet— |
| Say, scurril jester, is there room for you? |
| |
| Yes, he had lived to shame me from my sneer— |
| To lame my pencil and confute my pen— |
| To make me own this hind, of princes peer, |
| This rail-splitter, a true-born king of men. |
| |
| My shallow judgment I had learned to rue, |
| Noting how to occasion's height he rose; |
| How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true, |
| How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows; |
| |
| How humble, yet how hopeful he could be; |
| How in good fortune and in ill the same; |
| Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, |
| Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame. |
| |
| He went about his work—such work as few |
| Ever had laid on head, and heart, and hand— |
| As one who knows where there's a task to do, |
| Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command; |
| |
| Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow, |
| That God makes instruments to work His will, |
| If but that will we can arrive to know, |
| Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill. |
| |
| |
| So he went forth to battle, on the side |
| That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's, |
| As in his peasant boyhood he had plied |
| His warfare with rude nature's thwarting mights;— |
| |
| The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil, |
| The iron bark that turns the lumberer's axe, |
| The rapid, that o'erbears the boatman's toil, |
| The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks, |
| |
| The ambushed Indian and the prowling bear— |
| Such were the needs that helped his youth to train: |
| Rough culture—but such trees large fruit may bear, |
| If but their stocks be of right girth and grain. |
| |
| So he grew up, a destined work to do, |
| And lived to do it: four long, suffering years |
| Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through, |
| And then he heard the hisses change to cheers, |
| |
| The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise, |
| And took both with the same unwavering mood; |
| Till, as he came on light, from darkling days, |
| And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood, |
| |
| A felon hand, between the goal and him, |
| Beached from behind his back, a trigger prest— |
| And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim, |
| Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest! |
| |
| The words of mercy were upon his lips, |
| Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen, |
| When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse |
| To thoughts of peace on earth, goodwill 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 as its triumph came! |
