ABRAHAM LINCOLN FOULLY ASSASSINATED, APRIL 14, 1865 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 Yes; he had liv'd to shame me from my sneer, My shallow judgment I had learn'd to rue, How humble, yet how hopeful he could be; Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame. He went about his work, such work as few Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow, 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 unclear'd forest, the unbroken soil, The iron bark that turns the lumberer's axe, The ambush'd Indian, and the prowling bear, So he grew up, a destin'd work to do, And liv'd to do it; four long-suffering years' 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 seem'd to touch the goal from where he stood, A felon hand, between the goal and him, Reach'd from behind his back, a trigger prest And those perplex'd 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, 黎 A deed accurs'd! Strokes have been struck before By the assassin'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. From OUR HEROIC THEMES (READ BEFORE THE PHI BETA KAPPA SOCIETY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY.) Crown we our heroes with a holier wreath Sad as the toil in which his heart grew wise; Frenzied with rage, unscrupulous with crime, |