The Poets' Lincoln Part 25

Learned the printing trade at which he worked during the summer and taught school in winter. He made long pedestrian tours through the United States and even extended his tramps through Canada. His chief work, _Leaves of Gra.s.s_, is a series of poems through which he earned the praise of some and the abuse of others. He visited the army when a brother was wounded and remained afterward as a volunteer nurse. Died 1892.

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done; The s.h.i.+p has weather'd every wrack, 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 firm 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 sh.o.r.es a-crowding; For you they call, the swaying ma.s.s, 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 s.h.i.+p is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done; From fearful trip, the victor s.h.i.+p, comes in with object won;

Exult, O sh.o.r.es, and ring, O bells!

But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck where my Captain lies, Fallen, cold and dead.

[Ill.u.s.tration: STATUE OF LINCOLN

By Lott Flannery, in front of the Court House, Was.h.i.+ngton Unveiled April 16, 1868]

Henry de Garrs, of Sheffield, England, wrote these lines on the a.s.sa.s.sination of Abraham Lincoln in 1865. They were published in England in 1889, and later in America, in the _Century_.

ON THE a.s.sa.s.sINATION OF LINCOLN

What dreadful rumor, hurtling o'er the sea, Too monstrous for belief, a.s.sails our sh.o.r.e?

Men pause and question, Can such foul crime be?

Till lingering doubt may cling to hope no more.

Not when great Caesar weltered in his gore, Nor since, in time, or circ.u.mstance, or place, Hath crime so shook the World's great heart before.

O World! O World! of all thy records base, Time wears no fouler scar on his time-smitten face.

A king of men, inured to hardy toil, Rose truly royal up the steeps of life, Till Europe's monarchs seemed to dwarf the while Beneath his greatness--great when traitors rife Pierced deep his country's heart with treason-knife; But greatest when victorious he stood, Crowning with mercy freedom's greatest strife.

The world saw the new light of G.o.dlike good Ere the a.s.sa.s.sin's hand shed his most precious blood.

Lament thy loss, sad sister of the West: Not one, but many nations with thee weep; Cherish thy martyr on thy wounded breast, And lay him with thy Was.h.i.+ngton to sleep.

Earth holds no fitter sepulcher to keep His royal heart--one of thy kings to be Who reign even from the grave; whose scepters sweep More potent over human destiny Than all ambition's pride and power and majesty.

Yet, yet rejoice that thou hadst such a son; The mother of such a man should never sigh; Could longer life a n.o.bler cause have won?

Could longest age more gloriously die?

Oh! lift thy heart, thy mind, thy soul on high With deep maternal pride, that from thy womb Came such a son to scourge h.e.l.l's foulest lie Out of life's temple. Watchers by his tomb!

He is not there, but risen: that grave is slavery's doom.

POETICAL TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN

_By Emily J. Bugbee_

There's a burden of grief on the breezes of Spring, And a song of regret from the bird on its wing; There's a pall on the suns.h.i.+ne and over the flowers, And a shadow of graves on these spirits of ours; For a star hath gone out from the night of our sky, On whose brightness we gazed as the war-cloud roll'd by; So tranquil, and steady, and clear were its beams, That they fell like a vision of peace on our dreams.

A heart that we knew had been true to our weal, And a hand that was steadily guiding the wheel; A name never tarnished by falsehood or wrong, That had dwelt in our hearts like a soul-stirring song.

Ah! that pure, n.o.ble spirit has gone to its rest, And the true hand lies nerveless and cold on his breast; But the name and the memory--_these_ never will die, But grow brighter and dearer as ages go by.

Yet the tears of a Nation fall over the dead, Such tears as a Nation before never shed; For our cherished one fell by a dastardly hand, A martyr to truth and the cause of the land; And a sorrow has surged, like the waves to the sh.o.r.e, When the breath of the tempest is sweeping them o'er, And the heads of the lofty and lowly have bowed, As the shaft of the lightning sped out from the cloud.

Not gathered, like Was.h.i.+ngton, home to his rest, When the sun of his life was far down in the West; But stricken from earth in the midst of his years, With the Canaan in view, of his prayers and his tears.

And the people, whose hearts in the wilderness failed, Sometimes, when the star of their promise had paled, Now, stand by his side on the mount of his fame, And yield him their hearts in a grateful acclaim.

[Ill.u.s.tration: STATUE OF LINCOLN

Muskegon, Michigan, Charles Niehaus, sculptor]

John Nichol, born at Montrose, Forfars.h.i.+re, Scotland, September 8, 1833. He was a professor of English Literature at the University of Glasgow (1861-1889), and did much to make American books popular in England. His numerous publications include: _Leaves_ (1854), verse; _Tables of European History, 200-1876 A.D._ (1876); fourth edition (1888); _Byron in English Men of Letters series_; _American Literature, 1520-1880_ (1882). He was an ardent advocate of the Northern cause during the Civil War, and visited the United States at the close of the conflict. He died at London, England, October 11, 1894.

LINCOLN, 1865

An end at last! The echoes of the war-- The weary war beyond the Western waves-- Die in the distance. Freedom's rising star Beacons above a hundred thousand graves;

The graves of heroes who have won the fight, Who in the storming of the stubborn town Have rung the marriage peal of might and right, And scaled the cliffs and cast the dragon down.

Paeans of armies thrill across the sea, Till Europe answers--"Let the struggle cease.

The b.l.o.o.d.y page is turned; the next may be For ways of pleasantness and paths of peace!"

A golden morn--a dawn of better things-- The olive-branch--clasping of hands again-- A n.o.ble lesson read to conquered kings-- A sky that tempests had not scoured in vain.

This from America we hoped and him Who ruled her "in the spirit of his creed."

Does the hope last when all our eyes are dim, As history records her darkest deed?

The pilot of his people through the strife, With his strong purpose turning scorn to praise, E'en at the close of battle reft of life And fair inheritance of quiet days.

Defeat and triumph found him calm and just, He showed how clemency should temper power, And, dying, left to future times in trust The memory of his brief victorious hour.