Let us not then try to compare and to measure him with others, and let us not quarrel as to whether he was greater or less than Washington, as to whether either of them set to perform the other's task would have succeeded in it, or, perchance would have failed. Not only is the compet.i.tion itself an ungracious one, but to make Lincoln a compet.i.tor is foolish and useless. He was the most individual man who ever lived; let us be content with this fact. Let us take him simply as Abraham Lincoln, singular and solitary, as we all see that he was; let us be thankful if we can make a niche big enough for him among the world's heroes, without worrying ourselves about the proportion which it may bear to other niches; and there let him remain forever, lonely, as in his strange lifetime, impressive, mysterious, unmeasured, and unsolved.

_John T. Morse, Jr._

Those who are raised high enough to be able to look over the stone walls, those who are intelligent enough to take a broader view of things than that which is bounded by the lines of any one State or section, understand that the unity of the nation is of the first importance, and are prepared to make those sacrifices and concessions, within the bounds of loyalty, which are necessary for its maintenance, and to cherish that temper of fraternal affection which alone can fill the form of national existence with the warm blood of life. The first man after the Civil War, to recognize this great principle and to act upon it was the head of the nation,--that large and generous soul whose worth was not fully felt until he was taken from his people by the stroke of the a.s.sa.s.sin, in the very hour when his presence was most needed for the completion of the work of reunion.

_Henry Van d.y.k.e._

LINCOLN

From _MacMillan's Magazine_, England

LINCOLN! When men would name a man Just, unperturbed, magnanimous, Tried in the lowest seat of all, Tried in the chief seat of the house--

Lincoln! When men would name a man Who wrought the great work of his age, Who fought and fought the n.o.blest fight, And marshalled it from stage to stage,

Victorious, out of dusk and dark, And into dawn and on till day, Most humble when the paeans rang, Least rigid when the enemy lay

Prostrated for his feet to tread-- This name of Lincoln will they name, A name revered, a name of scorn, Of scorn to sundry, not to fame.

Lincoln, the man who freed the slave; Lincoln whom never self enticed; Slain Lincoln, worthy found to die A soldier of his captain Christ.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

This man whose homely face you look upon, Was one of Nature's masterful, great men; Born with strong arms, that unfought battles 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 to 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!

_Richard Henry Stoddard._

LINCOLN[23]

BY EDNA DEAN PROCTOR

Now must the storied Potomac Laurels for ever divide, Now to the Sangamon fameless Give of its century's pride.

Sangamon, stream of the prairies, Placidly westward that flows, Far in whose city of silence Calm he has sought his repose.

Over our Washington's river Sunrise beams rosy and fair, Sunset on Sangamon fairer-- Father and martyr lies there.

Kings under pyramids slumber, Sealed in the Lybian sands; Princes in gorgeous cathedrals Decked with the spoil of the lands Kinglier, princelier sleeps he Couched 'mid the prairies serene, Only the turf and the willow Him and G.o.d's heaven between!

Temple nor column to c.u.mber Verdure and bloom of the sod-- So, in the vale by Beth-peor, Moses was buried of G.o.d.

Break into blossom, O prairies!

Snowy and golden and red; Peers of the Palestine lilies Heap for your glorious dead!

Roses as fair as of Sharon, Branches as stately as palm, Odors as rich as the spices-- Ca.s.sia and aloes and balm-- Mary the loved and Salome, All with a gracious accord, Ere the first glow of the morning Brought to the tomb of the Lord

Wind of the West! breathe around him Soft as the saddened air's sigh When to the summit of Pisgah Moses had journeyed to die.

Clear as its anthem that floated Wide o'er the Moabite plain, Low with the wail of the people Blending its burdened refrain.

Rarer, O Wind! and diviner,-- Sweet as the breeze that went by When, over Olivet's mountain, Jesus was lost in the sky.

Not for thy sheaves nor savannas Crown we thee, proud Illinois!

Here in his grave is thy grandeur; Born of his sorrow thy joy.

Only the tomb by Mount Zion Hewn for the Lord do we hold Dearer than his in thy prairies, Girdled with harvests of gold.

Still for the world, through the ages Wreathing with glory his brow, He shall be Liberty's Saviour-- Freedom's Jerusalem thou!

[23] _By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Company._

WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOORYARD BLOOM'D[24]

BY WALT WHITMAN

I

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd, And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night, I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring, Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west, And thought of him I love.

II

O powerful western fallen star!

O shades of night--O moody, tearful night!

O great star disappear'd--O the black murk that hides the star!

O cruel hands that hold me powerless--O helpless soul of me!

O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul.

III

In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash'd palings, Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green, With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love,

With every leaf a miracle--and from this bush in the dooryard, With delicate-color'd blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green, A sprig with its flower I break.

IV

In the swamp in secluded recesses, A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.

Solitary the thrush, The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements, Sings by himself a song.

Song of the bleeding throat, Death's outlet song of life (for well, dear brother, I know, If thou wast not granted to sing thou would'st surely die).

V

Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities, Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peep'd from the ground, spotting the gray debris, Amid the gra.s.s in the fields each side of the lanes, pa.s.sing the endless gra.s.s.

Pa.s.sing the yellow-spear'd wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprisen, Pa.s.sing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards, Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave, Night and day journeys a coffin.

VI