That Heaven itself took up his people's part;
And when he faltered, helped him ere he fell,
Eking his efforts out by miracle.

No king this man, by grace of God's intent;
No, something better, freeman, - President!
A nature, modeled on a higher plan,
Lord of himself, an inborn gentleman!

George Henry Boker 1865

By special permission of the
J. B. Lippincott Co.

From

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

Dead is the roll of the drums,
And the distant thunders die,
They fade in the far-off sky;
And a lovely summer comes,

Like the smile of Him on high.

Lulled, the storm and the onset.
Earth lies in a sunny swoon;
Stiller splendor of noon,
Softer glory of sunset,

Milder starlight and moon!

For the kindly Seasons love us;
They smile over trench and clod
(Where we left the bravest of us,)
There's a brighter green of the sod,
And a holier calm above us

In the blesséd Blue of God.

The roar and ravage were vain ;
And Nature, that never yields,

Is busy with sun and rain
At her old sweet work again
On the lonely battle-fields.

How the tall white daisies grow, Where the grim artillery rolled! (Was it only a moon ago?

It seems a century old,) —

And the bee hums in the clover,
As the pleasant June comes on;
Aye, the wars are all over,

But our good Father is gone.

There was tumbling of traitor fort, Flaming of traitor fleet

Lighting of city and port,

Clasping in square and street.

There was thunder of mine and gun,

Cheering by mast and tent,

When his dread work all done,
And his high fame full won

Died the Good President.

In his quiet chair he sate,
Pure of malice or guile,
Stainless of fear or hate,

And there played a pleasant smile On the rough and careworn face; For his heart was all the while On means of mercy and grace.

The brave old Flag drooped o'er him, (A fold in the hard hand lay,)

He looked, perchance, on the play, But the scene was a shadow before him, For his thoughts were far away.

'Twas but the morn, (yon fearful Death-shade, gloomy and vast, Lifting slowly at last,)

His household heard him say, ""Tis long since I've been so cheerful, So light of heart as to-day."

'Twas dying, the long dread clang,
But, or ever the blessed ray
Of peace could brighten to day,
Murder stood by the way

Treason struck home his fang!
One throb and, without a pang,
That pure soul passed away.

Kindly Spirit! Ah, when did treason Bid such a generous nature cease, Mild by temper and strong by reason, But ever leaning to love and peace?

A head how sober; a heart how spacious; A manner equal with high or low; Rough but gentle, uncouth but gracious, And still inclining to lips of woe.

Patient when saddest, calm when sternest, Grieved when rigid for justice' sake; Given to jest, yet ever in earnest

If aught of right or truth were at stake.

Simple of heart, yet shrewd therewith,
Slow to resolve, but firm to hold;
Still with parable and with myth
Seasoning truth, like Them of old;
Aptest humor and quaintest pith!
(Still we smile o'er the tales he told.)

Yet whoso might pierce the guise

Of mirth in the man we mourn, Would mark, and with grieved surprise, All the great soul had borne,

In the piteous lines, and the kind, sad eyes So dreadfully wearied and worn.

And we trusted (the last dread page
Once turned, of our Dooms-day Scroll,)
To have seen him, sunny of soul,
In a cheery, grand old age.