Chapter 12

In solid platoons of steel, Under heaven's triumphant arch, The long lines break and wheel, And the order is "Forward, March!" The colors ripple o'erhead, The drums roll up to the sky, And with martial time and tread The regiments all pass by-- The ranks of the faithful dead Meeting their president's eye. March on, your last brave mile! Salute him, star and lace! Form 'round him, rank and file, And look on the kind, rough face. But the quaint and homely smile Has a glory and a grace It has never known erstwhile, Never in time or space. Close 'round him, hearts of pride! Press near him, side by side! For he stands there not alone. For the holy right he died, And Christ, the crucified, Waits to welcome his own.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

_Written for the Lincoln Memorial Album, by Eugene J. Hall, 1882._

O honored name, revered and undecaying, Engraven on each heart, O soul sublime! That, like a planet through the heavens straying, Outlives the wreck of time!

O rough, strong soul, your noble self-possession Is unforgotten. Still your work remains. You freed from bondage and from vile oppression A race in clanking chains.

O furrowed face, beloved by all the nation! O tall gaunt form, to memory fondly dear! O firm, bold hand, our strength and our salvation! O heart that knew no fear!

Lincoln, your manhood shall survive forever, Shedding a fadeless halo round your name; Urging men on, with wise and strong endeavor, To bright and honest fame!

Through years of care, to rest and joy a stranger, You saw complete the work you had begun, Thoughtless of threats, nor heeding death or danger, You toiled till all was done.

You freed the bondman from his iron master, You broke the strong and cruel chains he wore, You saved the Ship of State from foul disaster And brought her safe to shore.

You fell! An anxious nation's hopes seemed blighted, While millions shuddered at your dreadful fall; But _God is good_! His wondrous hand has righted And reunited all.

You fell, but in your death you were victorious; To moulder in the tomb your form has gone, While through the world your great soul grows more glorious As years go gliding on!

All hail, great Chieftain! Long will sweetly cluster A thousand memories round your sacred name, Nor time, nor death shall dim the spotless luster That shines upon your fame.

Samuel Francis Smith, clergyman, born in Boston, Massachusetts, October 21, 1808. Attended the Boston Latin School in 1820-5, and was graduated at Harvard in 1829 and at Andover Theological Seminary in 1832. Was ordained to the ministry of the Baptist Church at Waterville, Maine, in 1834, where he occupied pastorates from 1834 until 1842, and at Newton, Massachusetts, 1842 to 1854. Was professor of languages in Waterville College while residing in that city, and there he also received the degree of D.D. in 1854.

He has done a large amount of literary work, mainly in the line of hymnology, his most popular composition being our national hymn, _My Country, 'Tis of Thee_, which was written while he was a theological student, and first sung at a children's celebration in the Park Street Church, Boston, July 4, 1832. _The Morning Light is Breaking_, was also written at the same place and time. His classmate, Oliver Wendell Holmes, in his reunion poem entitled _The Boys_, thus refers to him:

"And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith; Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith! But he chanted a song for the brave and the free-- Just read on his medal, 'My Country, of Thee!'"

The following poem was written expressly for the exercises held on the Nineteenth Anniversary of President Lincoln's death, at his tomb, Springfield, Illinois, April 15, 1884.

THE TOMB OF LINCOLN

Grandeur and glory await around the bed Where sleeps in lowly peace the illustrious dead; He rose a meteor, upon wondering men, But rose in strength, never to set again. A king of men, though born in lowly state, A man sincerely good and nobly great; Tender, but firm; faithful and kind, and true, The Nation's choice, the Nation's Saviour, too; When Liberty and Truth shall reign for evermore, From Oregon to Florida's perpetual May, From Shasta's awful peak to Massachusetts Bay,-- Then our children's children, by the cottage door, In the schoolroom, from the pulpit, at the bar, Shall look up to thee as to a beacon star, And deduce the lesson from thy life and death, That the patriot's lofty courage and the Christian's faith Conquer honors that outweigh ambition's gaudiest prize, Triumph o'er the grave, and open the gates of Paradise.

Schooled through life's early hardships to endure, To raise the oppressed, to save and shield the poor; Prudent in counsel, honest in debate, Patient to hear and judge, patient to wait; The calm, the wise, the witty and the proved, Whom millions honored, and whom millions loved; Swayed by no baleful lust of pride or power, The shining pageants of the passing hour,

Led by no scheming arts, no selfish aim, Ambitious for no pomp, nor wealth, nor fame, No planning hypocrite, no pliant tool, A high-born patriot, of Heaven's noblest school; Cool and unshaken in the maddest storm, For in the clouds he traced the Almighty's form; Worn with the weary heart and aching head, Worse than the picket, with his ceaseless tread,

He kept--as bound by some resistless fate-- His broad, strong hand upon the helm of State; Nor turned, in fear, his heart or hope away, Till on the field his tent a ruin lay. His tent, a ruin; but the owner's name Stands on the pinnacle of human fame, Inscribed in lines of light, and nations see, Through him, the people's life and liberty.

What high ideas, what noble acts he taught! To make men free in life, and limb, and thought, To rise, to soar, to scorn the oppressor's rod, To live in grander life, to live for God; To stand for justice, freedom and the right, To dare the conflict, strong in God's own might; The methods taught by Him, by him were tried, And he, to conscience true, a martyr died.

As the great sun pursues his heavenly way And fills with life and joy the livelong day, Till, the full journey, in glory dressed, He seeks his crimson couch beneath the west; So, with his labor done, our hero sleeps; Above his tomb a ransomed Nation weeps; And grateful pæans o'er his ashes rise-- Dear is his fame--his glory never dies.

Bring flowers, fresh flowers, bring plumes with nodding crests, To wreath the tomb where our great hero rests; Bring pipe and tabret, eloquence and song, And sound the loving tribute, loud and long; A Nation bows, and mourns his honored name, A Nation proudly keeps his deathless fame; Let vale and rock, and hill, and land, and sea His memory swell--the anthem of the free.

John Townsend Trowbridge, born September 18, 1827, in Ogden, New York. He lived the ordinary life of a country boy, going to school six months in the year till he was fourteen, after which he had to work on the farm in summer. His books had more interest to him than his work, and he managed to learn more out of school than in it. At sixteen he wrote articles in verse and prose for magazines and journals. He was a contributor to the _Atlantic Monthly_.

During the great rebellion, he wrote several stories of the war: _The Drummer Boy_, 1863, and _The Three Scouts_, 1865. On the return of peace he spent some four months in the principal southern States, for the purpose of gaining accurate views of the condition of society there after the war. He published the result of these observations June, 1866, in a volume entitled, _The South_. A collected edition of his poems was published in 1869, entitled _The Vagabonds, and Other Poems_.

LINCOLN

Heroic soul, in homely garb half hid, Sincere, sagacious, melancholy, quaint; What he endured, no less than what he did, Has reared his monument, and crowned him saint.

Kinahan Cornwallis was born in London, England, December 24, 1839. Entered British Colonial Civil Service; two years at Melbourne, Australia. Located in New York in 1860, one of the editors and correspondent of the _Herald_. Accompanied the Prince of Wales on his American tour. Admitted to the New York bar in 1863; financial editor and general editorial writer of _New York Herald_, 1860-69. Editor and proprietor of _The Knickerbocker Magazine_, afterward of _The Albion_. Since 1886 editor and proprietor _Wall Street Daily Investigator_, now _Wall Street Daily Investor_. Author of _Howard Plunkett_ (a novel); an Australian poem, 1857. The _New Eldorado, or British Columbia_ (Travels); _Two Journeys to Japan_; _A Panorama of the New World_; _Wreck and Ruin, or Modern Society_ (novel); _My Life and Adventures_ (story), 1859, also of many other histories and novels. Among his poet productions are _The Song of America and Columbus_, 1892; _The Conquest of Mexico and Peru_, 1893; _The War for the Union, or the Duel Between North and South_, 1899.

HOMAGE DUE TO LINCOLN

Well may we all to Lincoln homage pay, For patriotic duty points the way, And tells the story of the debt we owe-- A debt of gratitude that all should know; And ne'er will perish that historic tale. To him, the Union's great defender, hail! Through battling years he steered the ship of state, And ever proved a captain just and great. Through storm and tempest, and unnumbered woes, While oft assailed in fury by his foes, He held his course, and triumphed over all, Responding ever to his country's call; And more divine than human seemed the deed When he the slave from hellish bondage freed, And from the South its human chattels tore. 'Twas his to Man his manhood to restore. That righteous action sealed rebellion's doom, And paved secession's pathway to the tomb. But, lo! when Peace with Union glory, came, And all the country rang with his acclaim-- A reunited country, great and strong-- A foul assassin marked him for his prey; A bullet sped, and Lincoln dying lay. Alas! Alas! that he should thus have died-- His country's leader, and his country's pride! No deed more infamous than this-- No fate more cruel and unjust than his-- Can in the annals of the world be found. The Nation shuddered in its grief profound, And mourning emblems draped the country o'er Alas! Alas! its leader was no more! But still he lives in his immortal fame, And evermore will Glory gild his name, And keep his memory in eternal view, And o'er his grave unfading garlands strew.

It is within an inclosed cemetery, known as the Calton burying ground, which is separated from the Calton Hill by a wide thoroughfare. The statue is the work of an American sculptor, George E. Bissell. It is a fine bronze figure, and rests on a massive granite pedestal. The figure at the base is that of a freed negro holding up a wreath. On one face of the pedestal are Lincoln's words, "To preserve the jewel of liberty in the framework of freedom." The statue is a memorial not alone to Lincoln; the legend on the pedestal tells that this plot of ground was given by the lord provost and town council of Edinburgh to Wallace Bruce, United States Consul, and dedicated as a burial place for Scottish soldiers of the American Civil War, 1861-65. Cut in the granite are the names and records of Scots who fought to preserve the Union, and who have found their last resting place in this old burying ground at the Scottish capital.

David K. Watson was born near London, Madison County, Ohio, June 18, 1849. Moved to Columbus, Ohio, in 1875, where he now resides. Was Assistant United States District Attorney for the Southern District of Ohio from 1881 to 1885. Elected Attorney-General of Ohio in 1887 and re-elected in 1889. Member of the fifty-fourth Congress. Was member of the Commission to revise the Federal Statutes. Author of _History of American Coinage_ and _Watson on the Constitution of the United States_.

THE SCOTLAND STATUE

O Scotland! It was a gracious act in thee To build a monument beside the sea To Lincoln, who wrote the word, And slavery's shackles fell From off a race Which ne'er before could tell What freedom was. To Lincoln, whose soul was great enough to know That beings born in likeness of their God Were meant to live as freemen, Not as slaves, and ruled by slavery's rod. To Lincoln, who more than any of his race Uplifted men and women to the place God made for them. To Lincoln, who never saw your land, And in whose veins no Scottish blood had run; But yet, because of deeds which he had done, His mighty name Had filled the world with fame And taught the people of each land That in God's hand Is held the destiny of races and of man.

Immortal patriot! through the mist of years That in the future are to come,-- When we who saw thee here are gone,-- We view thy heaven-aspiring tomb Illumined by the roseate dawn Of the millennial day, When Peace shall hold her sway, And bring Saturnian eras; when the roar O' the battle's thunder shall be heard no more.

The statue was unveiled May 30, 1911. It is the gift of Amos H. Van Horn, who died December 26, 1908. In his will he set aside $25,000 for a memorial to Abraham Lincoln, to be dedicated in memory of Lincoln Post, No. 11, Department of New Jersey, G. A. R., of which he was a charter member.

Joseph Fulford Folsom, Presbyterian clergyman, miscellaneous writer and local historian, is a native of Bloomfield, New Jersey. He is a direct descendant of John Folsom who arrived at Boston in the Diligent on August 10, 1638, and settled at Hingham, Massachusetts.

Mr. Folsom is the pastor of the Third Presbyterian Church, South, of Newark, New Jersey. He has served two terms as Chaplain General of the Order of the Founders and Patriots of America. Is Librarian and Recording Secretary of the New Jersey Historical Society. Edited and wrote three chapters of _Bloomfield, Old and New_, a history of that town published in 1912. Wrote the history of the churches of Newark, including the _History of Newark, New Jersey_, published in 1913. His poem, _The Ballad of Daniel Bray_, is found in the _Patriotic Poems of New Jersey_. He is an occasional writer of poems, and contributes regularly a column of historical matters, signed "The Lorist."

THE UNFINISHED WORK

The crowd was gone, and to the side Of Borglum's Lincoln, deep in awe, I crept. It seem'd a mighty tide Within those aching eyes I saw.

"Great heart," I said, "why grieve alway? The battle's ended and the shout Shall ring forever and a day,-- Why sorrow yet, or darkly doubt?"

"Freedom," I plead, "so nobly won For all mankind, and equal right, Shall with the ages travel on Till time shall cease, and day be night."

No answer--then; but up the slope, With broken gait, and hands in clench, A toiler came, bereft of hope, And sank beside him on the bench.

Wendell Phillips Stafford, son of Frank and Sarah (Noyes) Stafford, born at Barre, Vermont, May 1, 1861. Educated at Barre Academy and St. Johnsbury Academy. Studied law and attended Boston University Law School, graduating therefrom in 1883. Admitted to the bar in 1883. Practiced law in St. Johnsbury until 1900. Was then appointed to the Supreme Court of Vermont. Appointed to the Supreme Court of the District of Columbia in 1904, which position he still holds.

Married February 24, 1886, to Miss Florence Sinclair Goss of St. Johnsbury. Has contributed to the _Atlantic Monthly_ and other magazines. Publications: _North Flowers_ (poems), 1902; _Dorian Days_ (poems), 1909; _Speeches_, 1913.

ONE OF OUR PRESIDENTS

(_See page 80_)

He sits there on the low, rude, backless bench, With his tall hat beside him, and one arm Flung, thus, across his knee. The other hand Rests, flat, palm downward, by him on the seat. So Æsop may have sat; so Lincoln did. For all the sadness in the sunken eyes, For all the kingship in the uncrowned brow, The great form leans so friendly, father-like, It is a call to children. I have watched Eight at a time swarming upon him there, All clinging to him--riding upon his knees, Cuddling between his arms, clasping his neck, Perched on his shoulders, even on his head; And one small, play-stained hand I saw reached up And laid most softly on the kind bronze lips As if it claimed them. These were the children Of foreigners we call them, but not so They call themselves; for when we asked of one, A restless dark-eyed girl, who this man was, She answered straight, "One of our Presidents."

"Let all the winds of hell blow in our sails," I thought, "thank God, thank God the ship rides true!"

Frank Dempster Sherman, son of John Dempster and Lucy (McFarland) Sherman, was born May 6, 1860, at Peekskill, New York; educated at home and at Columbia and Howard Universities, and since 1886 connected with Columbia University where he is Professor of Graphics. Author of several volumes of poems which are published by Houghton-Mifflin Company, Boston.

Professor Sherman married, November 16, 1887, Juliet Durand, daughter of Rev. Cyrus Bervic and Sarah Elizabeth (Merserveau) Durand.

He is a member of the National Institute of Arts and Letters.

ON A BRONZE MEDAL OF LINCOLN

This bronze our Lincoln's noble head doth bear, Behold the strength and splendor of that face, So homely-beautiful, with just a trace Of humor lightening its look of care, With bronze indeed his memory doth share, This martyr who found freedom for a Race; Both shall endure beyond the time and place That knew them first, and brighter grow with wear. Happy must be the genius here that wrought These features of the great American Whose fame lends so much glory to our past-- Happy to know the inspiration caught From this most human and heroic man Lives here to honor him while Art shall last.

Ella Wheeler [Wilcox] was born in Johnstown Centre, Wisconsin, in 1845. Was educated at the public schools at Windsor and at the University of Wisconsin. In 1884 she married Robert M. Wilcox. Contributed articles for newspapers at an early age and also wrote and published a number of books of poems.

THE GLORY THAT SLUMBERED IN THE GRANITE ROCK

A granite rock on the mountain side Gazed on the world and was satisfied; It watched the centuries come and go-- It welcomed the sunlight, and loved the snow, It grieved when the forest was forced to fall, But smiled when the steeples rose, white and tall, In the valley below it, and thrilled to hear The voice of the great town roaring near.

When the mountain stream from its idle play Was caught by the mill-wheel, and borne away And trained to labor, the gray rock mused: "Tree and verdure and stream are used By man, the master, but I remain Friend of the Mountain, and Star, and Plain; Unchanged forever, by God's decree, While passing centuries bow to me!"

Then, all unwarned, with a heavy shock Down from the mountain was wrenched the rock. Bruised and battered and broken in heart, He was carried away to a common mart. Wrecked and ruined in peace and pride, "Oh, God is cruel!" the granite cried; "Comrade of Mountain, of Star the friend-- By all deserted--how sad my end!"

A dreaming sculptor, in passing by, Gazed on the granite with thoughtful eye; Then, stirred with a purpose supreme and grand, He bade his dream in the rock expand-- And lo! from the broken and shapeless mass, That grieved and doubted, it came to pass That a glorious statue, of infinite worth-- A statue of LINCOLN--adorned the earth.

This boulder had been for two hundred and fifty years a landmark near the Western shore of the Hudson River, opposite Upper Nyack. The school children of Nyack contributed the funds to remove it from its ancient bed and place it in front of the Nyack Carnegie Library, where it now stands and probably will stand for thousands of years to come, a monument to the memory of Abraham Lincoln.

The boulder contains the Gettysburg address and was dedicated June 13, 1908.