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ОглавлениеREADINGS, RECITATIONS, QUOTATIONS
SOME HEROES
This recitation is intended to be rendered by two little boys. One holds a book and shows the pictures while the other recites.
NOW look, and some pictures of heroes I'll show,
A hero is always a brave man, you know.
Here on this first page is Washington grand,
He fought for our liberty, our free, honored land.
And next we see our loved Lincoln so brave,
You know he gave freedom to each poor old slave.
And here's General Grant! Think what battles he won!
He fought that all States be united as one.
You see all these heroes are both good and great,
And each gave his life for his country and state.
The last is a hero—now think who 'twill be!
He, too, will be great; now look and see—Me.
OUR LINCOLN
Our Lincoln, when he was a boy,
Was very tall and slim.
You see I'm just a little tall;
I wonder if I look like him.
Our Lincoln, when he was a boy,
Was very brave and very true.
Today I'm just a little brave;
In this I'm like our Lincoln, too.
Our Lincoln, when he was a man,
Was loved and honored everywhere.
I'll be the man that Lincoln was,
To do this I must now prepare.
LIKE LINCOLN
Clara J. Denton
WHEN I'm a man, a great big man,
Like dear old Abe I'll be.
I mean to follow every plan
To make me good as he.
I'll study well, and tell the truth.
And all my teachers mind;
And I will be to every one,
Like him, so true and kind.
I'll try to live in peace, because
"Quarrels don't pay," said he;
And any rule of "Honest Abe's"
Is good enough for me.
I'll make the best of everything,
And never scold or whine;
That was his way when trouble came,
And so it shall be mine.
I'll be a temperance man, like him.
They say—what do you think!—
He gave some great men at his house,
Just water cold to drink!
He did not muddle up his brains
With any sort of stuff.
And so, I think his way—don't you?
Is plenty good enough.
I may not be a President
If thus my life I plan.
But I'll be something better still:
A good and honest man.
LINCOLN[A]
ONLY a baby, fair and small,
Like many another baby son,
Whose smiles and tears came swift at call,
Who ate, and slept, and grew, that's all—
The infant Abe Lincoln.
Only a boy like other boys,
With many a task, but little fun,
Fond of his books, though few he had,
By his good mother's death made sad—
The little Abe Lincoln.
Only a lad, awkward and shy,
Skilled in handling an ax or gun,
Mastering knowledge that, by and by,
Should aid him in duties great and high—
The youthful Abe Lincoln.
Only a man of finest bent,
A splendid man: a Nation's son,
Rail-splitter, Lawyer, President,
Who served his country and died content—
The patriot, Abe Lincoln.
Only—ah! what was the secret, then,
Of his being America's honored son?
Why was he famed above other men,
His name upon every tongue and pen—
The illustrious Abe Lincoln?
A mighty brain, a will to endure,
Kind to all, though a slave to none,
A heart that was brave, and strong, and sure,
A soul that was noble, and great, and pure,
A faith in God that was held secure—
This was Abraham Lincoln.
[A] With apologies to the unknown writer of the pretty poem Washington, of which this is an adaptation.—Editor.
THE GRANDSON OF THE VETERAN
Arthur E. Parke
I'VE got the finest grandpapa
That ever lived, I b'lieve;
He used to be a soldier boy—
He's got one empty sleeve.
He tells the grandest tales to me,
Of battles that he fought;
Of how he marched, and how he charged,
And how that he got shot.
My papa was a soldier, too;
No battles was he in,
And when I ask him, "Why?", he laughs
And "guesses" he "was tin."
I've tried to understand their talk,
And b'lieve I have it right:
My grandpa licked so many, there
Were none for pa to fight.
—Youth's Companion.
WAS LINCOLN KING?
Ella M. Bangs
WE TALKED of kings, little Ned and I,
As we sat in the firelight's glow;
Of Alfred the Great, in days gone by,
And his kingdom of long ago.
Of Norman William, who, brave and stern,
His armies to victory led.
Then, after a pause, "At school we learn
Of another great man," said Ned.
"And this one was good to the oppressed,
He was gentle and brave, and so
Wasn't he greater than all the rest?
'Twas Abraham Lincoln, you know."
"Was Lincoln a king?" I asked him then,
And in waiting for his reply
A long procession of noble men
Seemed to pass in the firelight by.
When "No" came slowly from little Ned,
And thoughtfully; then, with a start,
"He wasn't a king—outside," he said, "But I think he was in his heart."
LET US BE LIKE HIM[B]
Lydia Avery Coonley
WHEN we think of Abraham Lincoln
Then the angel voices call,
Saying: Try to be just like him!
Be as noble, one and all.
Be as truthful, as unselfish;
Be as pure, as good, as kind;
Be as honest; never flatter;
Give to God your heart and mind.
Seek not praise, but do your duty,
Love the right and work for it;
Then the world will be the better
Because you have lived in it.
[B] From Lincoln and Washington, by Marian M. George and Lydia Avery Coonley. Copyrighted and published by A. Flanagan Company. Price, twenty-five cents.
LINCOLN AND THE NESTLINGS
Clara J. Denton
I'VE heard the beautiful stories
Of Lincoln so great and so good.
He helped all people in trouble,
And their grief so well understood;
To many sad tales he listened,
Of heart-broken mothers and wives;
And pausing 'mid all his worries,
Once more he brought hope to their lives.
Dearer than all other stories,
Is this little one of the day
When he, with his friends, was riding
On horseback along the roadway;
There, in the dust, by a tree, he found
One little bird, then another,
From their nest the wind had blown them,
And he was hunting for their mother.
When at last he found the nest, and
In it the birdies laid,
'Mid the party's merry laughter
His heart was glad, his manner grave:
"Seems to me," he said, "I couldn't
Tonight in bed with ease have slept
Had I left those creatures suffer
And not restored them to their nest."
Wonderful heart; ever tender—
Tender, yet just, with the rest. I think among all the stories, This shows his true nature the best.
THE BEST TRIBUTE
Sidney Dayre
MY GRANDPA was a soldier. They tell about the day
He said his very last good-by and bravely marched away,
With flying flags and bayonets all gleaming in the sun.
They never saw him march back when all the war was done.
They brought him here and laid him where I can always bring
The very brightest flowers that blossom in the spring;
But sweeter far than flowers, as every one can tell,
Is the memory of the soldiers who loved their country well.
I wish I could be like him—to try with all my might
And do my loyal service for honor and for right
And victory and glory! But children now, you know,
Have never any chance at all to war against a foe.
And as I think upon it, the best that we can do
To show our love and honor for a hero brave and true,
Is to resolve together always to be brave,
To live our very noblest in the land he died to save.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN
Susie M. Best
'MID the names that fate has written
On the deathless scroll of fame,
We behold the name of Lincoln,
Shining like a living flame.
'Mid the deeds the world remembers,
(Deeds by dauntless heroes done),
We behold the deeds of Lincoln,
Blazing like a brilliant sun.
'Mid the lives whose light illumines
History's dark and dreadful page,
We behold the life of Lincoln,
Lighting up an awful age.
When the storm of peril threatened
His loved land to overwhelm,
Safe the ship of state he guided,
With his hand upon the helm.
Statesman, ruler, hero, martyr—
Fitting names for him, I say,
Wherefore, let us all as brothers,
Love his memory today.
'TIS SPLENDID TO LIVE SO GRANDLY[C] Margaret E. Sangster
'TIS splendid to live so grandly
That, long after you are gone,
The things you did are remembered,
And recounted under the sun;
To live so bravely and purely
That a nation stops on its way,
And once a year, with banner and drum,
Keeps the thoughts of your natal day.
'Tis splendid to have a record,
So white and free from stain,
That, held to the light, it shows no blot,
Though tested and tried again;
That age to age forever
Repeats its story of love,
And your birthday lives in a nation's heart
All other days above.
And this is our Lincoln's glory,
A steadfast soul and true,
Who stood for his country's union,
When his country called him to.
And now that we once more are one,
And our flag of stars is flung
To the breeze in defiant challenge,
His name is on every tongue.
Yes, it's splendid to live so bravely,
To be so great and strong,
That your memory is ever a tocsin
To rally the foes of the wrong;
To live so proudly and purely
That your people pause in their way,
And year by year, with banner and drum,
Keep the thoughts of your natal day.
[C] Adapted by the editor from the author's excellent tribute to Washington. The poem is equally true to the character and work of Lincoln as well as the love for him.
AT RICHMOND
Clara J. Denton
WE HAVE read the stories glowing,
Found in annals of old,
Of mighty conquerers marching,
With cohorts strong and bold:
We see the proud monarch, riding
In grand and lofty state,
We hear the clamor, extolling
His skill and prowess great.
But, grander by far the vision
Modern annals unclose:
Through the burning streets of Richmond
Walks Lincoln 'mong his foes.
Though no pride of state surrounds him,
On every side we hear:
"Foh Marsa Linkum, bress de Lawd."
"De Sabiour now am near."
"O, honey chile, jes' tech him once!"
"Suah heben is 'mos' nigh."
"I's on de mount, O, Gawd, I is."
"Dis niggah now kin die."
O, the poor untutored negroes!
And yet I am sure, to him
Before those cries of joy and love
Earth's brightest gauds grew dim.
And, I think, his heart that morning
A throb exultant gave;
For never more his countrymen
Could know the name of slave!
LINCOLN
FROM out the strong young west he came
In those warlike days of yore,
When Freedom's cry had reached the sky
And rung from shore to shore.
He knew the world was watching him,
He heard the words of scorn,
He felt the weight of a severed State
By cruel rebellion torn.
But calling on Jehovah,
He seized his mighty pen
And with a stroke, the chains he broke
From a million bonded men.
He was a dauntless leader
As among the host he moved,
And he gave his life in the time of strife
To save the cause he loved.
THE FLAG GOES BY
Henry Holcomb Bennett
HATS off!
Along the street there comes
A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums,
A flash of color beneath the sky;
Hats off!
The flag is passing by!
Blue and crimson and white it shines,
Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines.
Hats off!
The colors before us fly;
But more than the flag is passing by:
Sea fights and land fights, grim and great,
Fought to make and save the State;
Weary marches and sinking ships;
Cheers of victory on dying lips;
Days of plenty and years of peace;
March of a strong land's swift increase;
Equal justice, right, and law,
Stately honor and reverend awe;
Sign of a nation, great and strong
To ward her people from foreign wrong;
Pride and glory and honor—all
Live in the colors to stand or fall.
Hats off!
Along the street there comes
A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums;
And loyal hearts are beating high.
Hats off!
The flag is passing by!
THE STORY OF LINCOLN
C. C. Hassler
TELL to the boys the story of Lincoln,
Tell it to them when early in youth,
Tell of his struggles for knowledge to fit him,
Guide him thro' manhood in honored truth.
Tell them of Lincoln; yes, tell them the story,
None more worthy of honor than he;
None was more proud of our national glory;
None was more true to the flag of the free.
Tell to the boys the story of Lincoln;
Tell of his loyalty, tell of his hate—
Not toward men, but the infamous measures
False to the nation, the home and the state.
Tell them; yes, tell them, his highest ambition
Was of all men in the nation to stand
Close to the hearts of the people who loved him—
Loved him and chose him to rule in the land.
Tell to the boys the sad story of Lincoln;
Tell of his trials when traitors defied
And spurned the old flag; how the nation's defenders
At his call rallied and sprang to his side;
Tell how he suffered when news of the battle
Told of disaster, of wounded and dead;
Tell how his great noble heart was oft gladdened
When as proud victors our armies were led.
Tell them; yes, tell them the story and point them
Up to a standard he would applaud;
Loyal in life to the state and the nation,
True to one country, one flag and one God.
OLD FLAG
Hubbard Parker
WHAT shall I say to you, Old Flag?
You are so grand in every fold,
So linked with mighty deeds of old,
So steeped in blood where heroes fell,
So torn and pierced by shot and shell,
So calm, so still, so firm, so true,
My throat swells at the sight of you,
Old Flag.
What of the men who lifted you, Old Flag,
Upon the top of Bunker Hill,
Who crushed the Britons' cruel will,
'Mid shock and roar and crash and scream,
Who crossed the Delaware's frozen stream,
Who starved, who fought, who bled, who died,
That you might float in glorious pride,
Old Flag?
What of the women brave and true, Old Flag,
Who, while the cannon thundered wild,
Sent forth a husband, lover, child,
Who labored in the field by day,
Who, all the night long, knelt to pray,
And thought that God great mercy gave,
If only freely you might wave,
Old Flag?
What is your mission now, Old Flag?
What but to set all people free,
To rid the world of misery,
To guard the right, avenge the wrong,
And gather in one joyful throng
Beneath your folds in close embrace
All burdened ones of every race,
Old Flag.
Right nobly do you lead the way, Old Flag.
Your stars shine out for liberty,
Your white stripes stand for purity,
Your crimson claims that courage high
For honor's sake to fight and die.
Lead on against the alien shore!
We'll follow you, e'en to Death's door,
Old Flag!
ABRAHAM LINCOLN
R. H. Stoddard
THIS man whose homely face you look upon,
Was one of Nature's masterful, great men;
Born with strong arms that unfought victories 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 with it, though the road
Shot suddenly downwards, not a whit dismayed.
Hold, warriors, councillors, kings! All now give place
To this dead Benefactor of the Race!
ABRAHAM LINCOLN
William Cullen Bryant
This ode was written for the Funeral Services held in New York City.
OH, SLOW to smite and swift to spare,
Gentle and merciful and just!
Who in the fear of God, didst bear
The sword of power, a nation's trust.
In sorrow by thy bier we stand
Amid the awe that husheth all,
And speak the anguish of a land
That shook with horror at thy fall.
Thy task is done; the bonds are free;
We bear thee to an honored grave,
Whose proudest monument shall be
The broken fetters of the slave.
Pure was thy life; its bloody close
Has placed thee with the Sons of Light,
Among the noble host of those
Who perished in the cause of Right.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN
Alice Cary
INSCRIBED TO "PUNCH"
NO GLITTERING chaplet brought from other lands!
As in his life, this man, in death, is ours;
His own loved prairies o'er his "gaunt, gnarled hands"
Have fitly drawn their sheet of summer flowers!
What need hath he now of a tardy crown,
His name from mocking jest and sneer to save?
When every ploughman turns his furrow down
As soft as though it fell upon his grave.
He was a man whose like the world again
Shall never see, to vex with blame or praise;
The landmarks that attest his bright, brief reign
Are battles, not the pomps of gala days!
The grandest leader of the grandest war
That ever time in history gave a place;
What were the tinsel flattery of a star
To such a breast! or what a ribbon's grace!
'Tis to th' man, and th' man's honest worth, The nation's loyalty in tears upsprings; Through him the soil of labor shines henceforth High o'er the silken broideries of kings. The mechanism of external forms— The shrifts that courtiers put their bodies through, Were alien ways to him—his brawny arms Had other work than posturing to do! Born of the people, well he knew to grasp The wants and wishes of the weak and small; Therefore we hold him with no shadowy clasp— Therefore his name is household to us all. Therefore we love him with a love apart From any fawning love of pedigree— His was the royal soul and mind and heart— Not the poor outward shows of royalty. Forgive us then, O friends, if we are slow To meet your recognition of his worth— We're jealous of the very tears that flow From eyes that never loved a humble hearth.
YOUR FLAG AND MY FLAG
Wilbur D. Nesbit
YOUR Flag and my Flag,
And how it flies today
In your land and my land
And half the world away!
Rose-red and blood-red
The stripes forever gleam;
Snow-white and soul-white—
The good forefather's dream;
Sky-blue and true-blue, with stars to gleam aright—
The gloried guidon of the day; a shelter through the night.
Your Flag and my Flag!
And, oh, how much it holds—
Your land and my land—
Secure within its folds!
Your heart and my heart
Beat quicker at the sight;
Sun-kissed and wind-tossed,
Red and blue and white.
The one Flag—the great Flag—the Flag for me and you—
Glorified all else beside—the red and white and blue!
Your Flag and my Flag!
To every star and stripe
The drums beat as hearts beat
And fifers shrilly pipe!
Your Flag and my Flag—
A blessing in the sky;
Your hope and my hope—
It never hid a lie!
Home land and far land and half the world around,
Old Glory hears our glad salute and ripples to the sound!
THE DEATH OF LINCOLN
Charles G. Halpin
HE FILLED the nation's eye 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.
He was his country's, not his own;
He had no wish but for her weal;
Not for himself could think or feel,
But as a laborer for her throne.
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.
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.
O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!
Walt Whitman
Abraham Lincoln was killed by John Wilkes Booth, almost exactly four years after the first shot was fired at Fort Sumter. This song and Edwin Markham's poem on Lincoln are two of the greatest tributes ever paid to that hero.
O CAPTAIN! my Captain! Our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather'd every rack, 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 grim 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 my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN
Joel Benton
SOME opulent force of genius, soul, and race,
Some deep life-current from far centuries
Flowed to his mind and lighted his sad eyes,
And gave his name, among great names, high place.
But these are miracles we may not trace,
Nor say why from a source and lineage mean
He rose to grandeur never dreamt or seen
Or told on the long scroll of history's space.
The tragic fate of one broad hemisphere
Fell on stern days to his supreme control,
All that the world and liberty held dear
Pressed like a nightmare on his patient soul.
Martyr beloved, on whom, when life was done,
Fame looked, and saw another Washington!
ON THE LIFE-MASK OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN
Richard Watson Gilder
THIS bronze doth keep the very form and mold
Of our great martyr's face. Yes, this is he:
That brow all wisdom, all benignity;
That human humorous mouth; those cheeks that hold
Like some harsh landscape all the summer's gold;
That spirit fit for sorrow, as the sea
For storms to beat on; the lone agony
Those silent, patient lips too well foretold.
Yes, this is he who ruled a world of men
As might some prophet of the elder day—
Brooding above the tempest and the fray
With deep-eyed thought and more than mortal ken.
A power was his beyond the touch of art
Or armed strength—his pure and mighty heart.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN
James Russell Lowell
This is a fragment of the noble Commemoration Ode delivered at Harvard College to the memory of those of its students who fell in the war which kept the country whole.
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 this 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 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 the Norn-Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour
Greatening and darkening as it hurried on,
She left the Heaven of Heroes 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;
Tempered the heap with thrill of mortal tears;
Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff.
It was a stuff to hold against the world,
A man to match our mountains, and compel
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;
The loving-kindness of the wayside well;
The tolerance and equity of light
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 up to 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,
And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.
