Chapter 11

Walt Whitman, born in West Hills, Long Island, New York, May 31, 1819. He was educated in the public schools of Brooklyn and New York City. 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 Grass_, 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 ship 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 shores a-crowding; For you they call, the swaying mass, 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 shores, and ring, O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck where my Captain lies, Fallen, cold and dead.

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

ON THE ASSASSINATION OF LINCOLN

What dreadful rumor, hurtling o'er the sea, Too monstrous for belief, assails our shore? 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 circumstance, 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 godlike good Ere the assassin'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 Washington 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 nobler 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 hell'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 sunshine 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, noble 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 shore, 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 Washington, 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.

John Nichol, born at Montrose, Forfarshire, 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.

Pæans of armies thrill across the sea, Till Europe answers--"Let the struggle cease. The bloody 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 noble 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.

O'ermastered by the irony of fate, The last and greatest martyr of his cause; Slain like Achilles at the Scæan gate, He saw the end, and fixed "the purer laws."

May these endure and, as his work, attest The glory of his honest heart and hand-- The simplest, and the bravest, and the best-- The Moses and the Cromwell of his land.

Too late the pioneers of modern spite, Awe-stricken by the universal gloom, See his name lustrous in Death's sable night, And offer tardy tribute at his tomb.

But we who have been with him all the while, Who knew his worth, and loved him long ago, Rejoice that in the circuit of our isle There is at last no room for Lincoln's foe.

Christopher Pearse Cranch, born in Alexandria, Virginia, March 8, 1813. Graduated at the school of Divinity, Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1835, but retired from the ministry in 1842 to devote himself to art. He studied in Italy in 1846-8, and lived and painted in 1853-63, and, returning to New York, was elected a member of the National Academy in 1864. He was a graceful writer of both prose and verse.

LINCOLN

But yesterday--the exulting nation's shout Swelled on the breeze of victory through our streets, But yesterday--our banners flaunted out Like flowers the south wind woos from their retreats; Flowers of the nation, blue, and white, and red, Waving from balcony, and spire, and mast; Which told us that war's wintry storm had fled, And spring was more than spring to us at last.

Today the nation's heart lies crushed and weak; Drooping and draped in black our banners stand. Too stunned to cry revenge, we scarce may speak The grief that chokes all utterance through the land. God is in all. With tears our eyes are dim, Yet strive through darkness to look to Him!

No, not in vain he died--not all in vain, Our good, great President! This people's hands Are linked together in one mighty chain Drawn tighter still in triple-woven bands To crush the fiends in human masks, whose might We suffer, oh, too long! No league, nor truce Save men with men! The devils we must fight With fire! God wills it in this deed. This use We draw from the most impious murder done Since Calvary. Rise then, O Countrymen! Scatter these marsh-lights hopes of Union won Through pardoning clemency. Strike, strike again! Draw closer round the foe a girdling flame. We are stabbed whene'er we spare--strike in God's name!

George Henry Boker, born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, on the 6th day of October, 1823. Graduated at Princeton in 1842, and afterward studied law. In the year 1847, after his return from an extended tour in Europe, he published _The Lessons of Life and Other Poems_. He also produced a number of plays which were successfully produced upon the stage, both in England and America. During the War of the Rebellion he wrote a number of patriotic lyrics, collected and published in a volume under the title of _Poems of the War_. He has also written other poems and articles in prose which have received high praise.

In the year 1871 he was appointed by President Grant as our United States Minister to Turkey, but in 1875 was transferred to the more important Mission of Russia.

LINCOLN

Crown we our heroes with a holier wreath Than man e'er wore upon this side of death; Mix with their laurels deathless asphodels, And chime their pæans from the sacred bells! Nor in your praises forget the martyred Chief, Fallen for the gospel of your own belief, Who, ere he mounted to the people's throne, Asked for your prayers, and joined in them his own. I knew the man. I see him, as he stands With gifts of mercy in his outstretched hands; A kindly light within his gentle eyes, Sad as the toil in which his heart grew wise; His lips half parted with the constant smile That kindled truth, but foiled the deepest guile; His head bent forward, and his willing ear Divinely patient right and wrong to hear: Great in his goodness, humble in his state, Firm in his purpose, yet not passionate, He led his people with a tender hand, And won by love a sway beyond command. Summoned by lot to mitigate a time Frenzied with rage, unscrupulous with crime, He bore his mission with so meek a heart 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!

Phoebe Cary was born near Cincinnati, Ohio, September 24, 1824. Her advantages for education were somewhat better than those of her sister Alice, whose almost inseparable companion she became at an early age. They were quite different, however, in temperament, in person and in mental constitution. Phoebe began to write verse at the age of seventeen years, and one of her earliest poems, _Nearer Home_, beginning with "One sweetly solemn thought," won her a world-wide reputation. In the joint housekeeping in New York she took from choice (Alice being for many years an invalid) the larger share of duties upon herself, and hence found little opportunity for literary work. In society, however, she was brilliant, but at all times kindly. She wrote a touching tribute to her sister's memory, published in the _Ladies' Repository_ a few days before her own death, which occurred at Newport, R. I., July 31, 1871. In the volume of _Poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary_ (Philadelphia, 1850) but about one-third were written by Phoebe. Her independently published books are _Poems and Parodies_ (1854), and _Poems of Faith, Hope and Love_ (1868).

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

Our sun hath gone down at the noonday, The heavens are black; And over the morning the shadows Of night-time are back.

Stop the proud boasting mouth of the cannon, Hush the mirth and the shout; God is God! and the ways of Jehovah Are past finding out.

Lo! the beautiful feet on the mountains, That yesterday stood; The white feet that came with glad tidings Are dabbled in blood.

The Nation that firmly was settling The crown on her head, Sits, like Rizpah, in sackcloth and ashes, And watches her dead.

Who is dead? who, unmoved by our wailing Is lying so low? O, my Land, stricken dumb in your anguish, Do you feel, do you know?

Once this good man we mourn, overwearied, Worn, anxious, oppressed, Was going out from his audience chamber For a season to rest;

Unheeding the thousands who waited To honor and greet, When the cry of a child smote upon him And turned back his feet.

"Three days hath a woman been waiting," Said they, "patient and meek." And he answered, "Whatever her errand, Let me hear; let her speak!"

So she came, and stood trembling before him And pleaded her cause; Told him all; how her child's erring father Had broken the laws.

Humbly spake she: "I mourn for his folly, His weakness, his fall"; Proudly spake she: "he is not a TRAITOR, And I love him through all!"

Then the great man, whose heart had been shaken By a little babe's cry; Answered soft, taking counsel of mercy, "This man shall not die!"

Why, he heard from the dungeons, the rice-fields, The dark holds of ships; Every faint, feeble cry which oppression Smothered down on men's lips.

In her furnace, the centuries had welded Their fetter and chain; And like withes, in the hands of his purpose, He snapped them in twain.

Who can be what he was to the people; What he was to the State? Shall the ages bring to us another As good and as great?

Our hearts with their anguish are broken, Our wet eyes are dim; For us is the loss and the sorrow, The triumph for him!

For, ere this, face to face with his Father Our Martyr hath stood; Giving into his hand the white record With its great seal of blood!

That the hand which reached out of the darkness Hath taken the whole? Yea, the arm and the head of the people-- The heart and the soul!

And that heart, o'er whose dread awful silence A nation has wept; Was the truest, and gentlest, and sweetest A man ever kept!

On the 22nd of October, 1887, this statue by Saint Gaudens was unveiled, Mr. Eli Bates donating $40,000 for that purpose. There is a vast oval of cut stone, thirty by sixty feet, the interior fashioned to form a classic bench, and the statue stands on a stone pedestal. The sculptor represents him as an orator, just risen from his chair, which is shown behind him, and waiting for the audience to become quiet before beginning his speech. The attitude is that always assumed by Lincoln at the beginning--one hand behind him, and the other grasping the lapel of his coat. He appears the very incarnation of rugged grandeur which held the master mind of this age.

Charles Graham Halpin (Miles O'Reilly) was born near Oldcastle, County of Meath, Ireland, November 20, 1829. Graduated from Trinity College, Dublin, in 1846. He entered the field of journalism as a profession and soon gained a reputation in England. Came to New York in 1852 and secured employment with the _Herald_, was later connected with other papers. Enlisted in April, 1861, and became lieutenant of Colonel Corcoran's 69th Regiment, rising to the rank of brigadier-general. He died in New York City, August 3, 1868.

LINCOLN

He filled the Nation's eyes and heart, An honored, loved, familiar name; So much a brother that his fame Seemed of our lives a common part.

His towering figure, sharp and spare, Was with such nervous tension strung, As if on each strained sinew swung The burden of a people's care.

His changing face, what pen can draw-- Pathetic, kindly, droll or stern; And with a glance so quick to learn The inmost truth of all he saw.

Pride found no place to spawn Her fancies in his busy mind. His worth, like health or air, could find No just appraisal till withdrawn.

He was his country's--not his own; He had no wish but for the weak, Nor for himself could think or feel, But as a laborer for her throne.

Her flag upon the heights of power-- Stainless and unassayed to place, To this one end his earnest face Was bent through every burdened hour.

. . . . .

But done the battle--won the strife; When torches light his vaulted tomb, Broad gems flash out and crowns illume The clay-cold brow undecked in life.

. . . . .

O, loved and lost! Thy patient toil Had robed our cause in victory's light; Our country stood redeemed and bright, With not a slave on all her soil.

'Mid peals of bells and cannon's bark, And shouting streets with flags abloom, Sped the shrill arrow of thy doom, And, in an instant, all was dark!

. . . . .

A martyr to the cause of man, His blood is Freedom's Eucharist, And in the world's great hero list His name shall lead the van.

Yes! ranked on Faith's white wings unfurled In Heaven's pure light, of him we say, "He fell on the self-same day A Greater died to save the world."

He who seeks the embodiment of the genius of the Union finds it in the apotheosis of the Great Emancipator. There, under the arching skies he stands, erect, serene, resplendent; beneath his feet the broken shackles of a race redeemed; upon his brow the diadem of liberty with law, while around and behind him rise up, as an eternal guard of honor, the great army of the Republic.

In the belief that from the martyr's bier as from the battlefield of right it is but one step to paradise, may we not, on days like this, draw back the veil that separates from our mortal gaze the phantom squadrons as they pass again in grand review before their "Martyr President."--_From an address by Hiram F. Stevens, read before the Minnesota Commandery of the Loyal Legion._

THE MARTYR PRESIDENT