And so he came, From prairie cabin to the 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.
EDWIN MARKHAM.
_Abraham Lincoln_
(Summer, 1865.)
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.
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.
And our boys had fondly thought, To-day, in marching by, From the ground so dearly bought, And the fields so bravely fought, To have met their Father"s eye.
But they may not see him in place Nor their ranks be seen of him; We look for the well-known face, And the splendor is strangely dim.
Perished?--who was it said Our Leader had pa.s.sed away?
Dead? Our President dead?
He has not died for a day!
We mourn for a little breath Such as, late or soon, dust yields; But the Dark Flower of Death Blooms in the fadeless fields.
We looked on a cold, still brow, But Lincoln could yet survive; He never was more alive, Never nearer than now.
For the pleasant season found him, Guarded by faithful hands, In the fairest of Summer Lands; With his own brave Staff around him, There our President stands.
There they are all at his side, The n.o.ble hearts and true, That did all men might do-- Then slept, with their swords, and died.
HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.
_O Captain! My Captain!_
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 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 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 sh.o.r.es! and ring, O bells!
But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
WALT WHITMAN.
_The Flag Goes By_
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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sing by.
Sea-fights and land-fights, grim and great, Fought to make and to 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 pa.s.sing by!
HENRY HOLCOMB BENNETT.
_The Black Regiment_
Dark as the clouds of even, Ranked in the western heaven, Waiting the breath that lifts All the dead ma.s.s, and drifts Tempest and falling brand Over a ruined land,-- So still and orderly, Arm to arm, knee to knee, Waiting the great event, Stands the black regiment.
Down the long dusky line Teeth gleam, and eyeb.a.l.l.s shine; And the bright bayonet, Bristling and firmly set, Flashed with a purpose grand, Long ere the sharp command Of the fierce rolling drum Told them their time had come, Told them what work was sent For the black regiment.
"Now!" the flag-sergeant cried, "Though death and h.e.l.l betide, Let the whole nation see If we are fit to be Free in this land; or bound Down, like the whining hound,-- Bound with red stripes of pain In our cold chains again!"
Oh, what a shout there went From the black regiment!