Chapter 7

"Undoubtedly there were many in the audience who fully appreciated the beauty of the President's address, and many of those who read it on the following day perceived its wondrous character; but it is apparent that its full force and grandeur were not generally recognized then, either by its auditors or its readers. Not until the war had ended and the great leader had fallen did the nation realize that this speech had given to Gettysburg another claim to immortality and to American eloquence its highest glory."--From the monograph on the Gettysburg Address, by Maj. William H. Lambert.

Bayard Taylor, born in Kennett Square, Chester County, Pennsylvania, on the 11th of January, 1825. Died in Berlin, Germany, on the 19th of December, 1878. His boyhood was passed on a farm near Kennett. He learned to read at four, began to write at an early age, and from his twelfth year wrote poems, novels and historical essays, but mostly poems. In 1837 the family moved to Westchester, and there and at Unionville he had five years of high-school training. His first poem printed was contributed to the _Saturday Evening Post_, in 1841, and those to the _New York Tribune_ from abroad, written in 1844, were widely read and shortly after his return were collected and published in _Views Afoot, or Europe Seen With Knapsack and Staff_. With a friend he bought a printing office in 1846, and began to publish the _Phoenixville Pioneer_, but it was as a poet that he excelled above most other vocations.

GETTYSBURG ODE

After the eyes that looked, the lips that spake Here, from the shadows of impending death, Those words of solemn breath, What voice may fitly break The silence, doubly hallowed, left by him? We can but bow the head, with eyes grown dim, And, as a Nation's litany, repeat The phrase his martyrdom hath made complete, Noble as then, but now more sadly sweet: "Let us, the Living, rather dedicate Ourselves to the unfinished work, which they Thus far advanced so nobly on its way, And saved the periled State! Let us, upon this field where they, the brave, Their last full measure of devotion gave, Highly resolve they have not died in vain!-- That, under God, the Nation's later birth Of freedom, and the people's gain Of their own Sovereignty, shall never wane And perish from the circle of the earth!" From such a perfect text, shall Song aspire To light her faded fire, And into wandering music turn Its virtue, simple, sorrowful, and stern? His voice all elegies anticipated; For, whatsoe'er the strain, We hear that one refrain: "We consecrate ourselves to them, the Consecrated!"

Benjamin Franklin Taylor, born at Lowville, New York, July 19, 1819. He was for several years connected with the _Chicago Evening Journal_. He wrote _Pictures of Life in Camp and Field_ (1871); _The World on Wheels_, etc. (1874); _Songs of Yesterday_ (1877); _Between the Gates_ (1878); _Summer Savory_, etc. (1879); _Dulce Domum_ (1884); _Theophilus Trent_, a novel (1887); etc. Among his best known poems are: _Isle of the Long Ago_, _Rhymes of the River_, and _The Old Village Choir_.

LINCOLN'S SECOND INAUGURAL

The following is an excerpt from a _Centennial Poem_ read by B. F. Taylor on Decoration Day (May 30, 1876), on the occasion of the centennial celebration by the Department of the Potomac, Grand Army of the Republic, at Arlington Cemetery, Washington, D. C.

They see the pilgrims to the Springfield tomb-- Be proud today, oh, portico of gloom!-- Where lies the man in solitary state Who never caused a tear but when he died And set the flags around the world half-mast-- The gentle Tribune and so grandly great That e'en the utter avarice of Death That claims the world, and will not be denied, Could only rob him of his mortal breath. How strange the splendor, though the man be past! His noblest inspiration was his last. The statues of the Capitol are there. As when he stood upon the marble stair And said those words so tender, true and just, A royal psalm that took mankind on trust-- Those words that will endure and he in them, While May wears flowers upon her broidered hem, And all that marble snows and drifts to dust: "Fondly do we hope, fervently we pray That this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away: With charity for all, with malice toward none, With firmness in the right As God shall give us light, Let us finish the work already begun, Care for the battle sons, the Nation's wounds to bind, Care for the helpless ones that they will leave behind, Cherish it we will, achieve it if we can, A just and lasting peace, forever unto man!" Amid old Europe's rude and thundering years, When people strove as battle-clouds are driven, One calm white angel of a day appears In every year a gift direct from Heaven, Wherein, from setting sun to setting sun No thought of deed of bitterness was done. "Day of the Truce of God!" Be this day ours, Until perpetual peace flows like a river And hopes as fragrant as these tribute flowers Fill all the land forever and forever!

Hermann Hagedorn, born in New York, July 18, 1882. Instructor in English at Harvard in 1909-1911. Wrote several one-act plays which were produced by the Harvard Dramatic Club, and by clubs of other colleges. Author of _The Silver Blade_ (a play in verse), _The Woman of Corinth_, _A Troop of the Guard_ and other poems.

OH, PATIENT EYES!

Oh, patient eyes! oh, bleeding, mangled heart! Oh, hero, whose wide soul, defying chains, Swept at each army's head, Swept to the charge and bled, Gathering in one too sorrow-laden heart All woes, all pains; The anguish of the trusted hope that wanes, The soldier's wound, the lonely mourner's smart. He knew the noisy horror of the fight, From dawn to dusk and through the hideous night He heard the hiss of bullets, the shrill scream Of the wide-arching shell, Scattering at Gettysburg or by Potomac's stream, Like summer flowers, the pattering rain of death; With every breath, He tasted battle and in every dream, Trailing like mists from gaping walls of hell, He heard the thud of heroes as they fell.

Margaret Elizabeth Sangster, born at New Rochelle, New York, February 22, 1838. Educated privately, chiefly in New York. Became contributor to leading periodicals; also editor of _Hearth and Home_, 1871-73; _Christian at Work_, 1873-79; _The Christian Intelligencer_ since 1879; postmistress _Harper's Young People_, 1882-89; editor _Harper's Bazar_, 1889-99; staff contributor _Christian Herald_ since 1894; _Ladies' Home Journal_, 1899-1905; _Woman's Home Companion_ since 1905. Author _Poems of the Household_; _Home Fairies and Heart Flowers_; _On the Road Home_; _Easter Bells_; _Winsome Womanhood_; _Little Knights and Ladies_; _Lyrics of Love_; _When Angels Come to Men_; _Good Manners for All Occasions_; _The Story Bible_; _Fairest Girlhood_; _From My Youth Up_; _Happy School Days_. She died June 4, 1912.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

(_February 12, 1809-1909_)

Child of the boundless prairie, son of the virgin soil, Heir to the bearing of burdens, brother to them that toil; God and Nature together shaped him to lead in the van, In the stress of her wildest weather when the Nation needed a Man.

Eyes of a smoldering fire, heart of a lion at bay, Patience to plan for tomorrow, valor to serve for today, Mournful and mirthful and tender, quick as a flash with a jest, Hiding with gibe and great laughter the ache that was dull in his breast.

Met were the Man and the Hour--Man who was strong for the shock-- Fierce were the lightnings unleashed; in the midst, he stood fast as a rock. Comrade he was and commander, he who was meant for the time, Iron in council and action, simple, aloof, and sublime.

Swift slip the years from their tether, centuries pass like a breath, Only some lives are immortal, challenging darkness and death. Hewn from the stuff of the martyrs, write on the stardust his name, Glowing, untarnished, transcendent, high on the records of Fame.

Oh, man of many sorrows, 'twas your blood That flowed at Chickamauga, at Bull Run, Vicksburg, Antietam, and the gory wood And Wilderness of ravenous Deaths that stood Round Richmond like a ghostly garrison: Your blood for those who won, For those who lost, your tears! For you the strife, the fears, For us, the sun! For you the lashing winds and the beating rain in your eyes, For us the ascending stars and the wide, unbounded skies.

Oh, man of storms! Patient and kingly soul! Oh, wise physician of a wasted land! A nation felt upon its heart your hand, And lo, your hand hath made the shattered, whole, With iron clasp your hand hath held the wheel Of the lurching ship, on tempest waves no keel Hath ever sailed. A grim smile held your lips when strong men quailed. You strove alone with chaos and prevailed; You felt the grinding shock and did not reel, And, ah, your hand that cut the battle's path Wide with the devastating plague of wrath, Your bleeding hand, gentle with pity yet, Did not forget To bless, to succor, and to heal.

Wilbur Dick Nesbit was born at Xenia, Ohio, September 16, 1871. Educated in the public schools at Cedarville, Ohio. Was printer and reporter on various Ohio and Indiana papers until 1898; verse writer and paragrapher _Baltimore American_, 1899-1902; since that year writer of verse and humor _Chicago Evening Post_ and other newspapers, contributor of stories and poems to magazines and periodicals. Author of _Little Henry's Slate_, 1903; _The Trail to Boyland and Other Poems_, 1904; _An Alphabet of History_, 1905; _The Gentleman Ragman_, 1906; _A Book of Poems_, 1906; _The Land of Make-Believe and Other Christmas Poems_, 1907; _A Friend or Two_, 1908; _The Loving Cup_ (compilation), 1909; _The Old, Old Wish_, 1911; _My Company of Friends_, 1911; _If the Heart be Glad_, 1911; co-author with Otto Hauerbach of _The Girl of My Dreams_, a musical comedy, 1910.

THE MAN LINCOLN

Not as the great who grow more great Until from us they are apart-- He walks with us in man's estate; We know his was a brother heart. The marching years may render dim The humanness of other men; Today we are akin to him As they who knew him best were then.

Wars have been won by mail-clad hands, Realms have been ruled by sword-hedged kings, But he above these others stands As one who loved the common things; The common faith of man was his, The common faith of man he had-- For this today his grave face is A face half joyous and half sad.

A man of earth! Of earthy stuff, As honest as the fruitful soil, Gnarled as the friendly trees, and rough As hillsides that had known his toil; Of earthy stuff--let it be told, For earth-born men rise and reveal A courage fair as beaten gold And the enduring strength of steel.

So now he dominates our thought. This humble great man holds us thus Because of all he dreamed and wrought; Because he is akin to us. He held his patient trust in truth While God was working out His plan, And they that were his foes, forsooth, Came to pay tribute to the Man.

Not as the great who grow more great Until they have a mystic fame-- No stroke of fortune nor of fate Gave Lincoln his undying name. A common man, earth-bred, earth-born, One of the breed who work and wait-- His was a soul above all scorn. His was a heart above all hate.

Edwin Arlington Robinson, born at Head Tide, Maine, December 22, 1869. Educated at Gardiner, Maine, and Harvard University, 1891-3. Member National Institute Arts and Letters. Author: _The Torrent_ and _The Night Before_, 1896; _The Children of the Night_, 1897, 1905; _Captain Craig_ (poems), _The Town Down the River_, 1910.

THE MASTER

(LINCOLN)

A flying word from here and there Had sown the name at which we sneered, But soon the name was everywhere, To be reviled and then revered: A presence to be loved and feared, We cannot hide it, or deny That we, the gentlemen who jeered, May be forgotten by and by.

He came when days were perilous And hearts of men were sore beguiled; And having made his note of us, He pondered and was reconciled. Was ever master yet so mild As he, and so untamable? We doubted, even when he smiled, Not knowing what he knew so well.

He knew that undeceiving fate Would shame us whom he served unsought; He knew that he must wince and wait-- The jest of those for whom he fought; He knew devoutly what he thought Of us and of our ridicule; He knew that we must all be taught Like little children in a school.

We gave a glamour to the task That he encountered and saw through, But little of us did he ask, And little did we ever do. And what appears if we review The season when we railed and chaffed? It is the face of one who knew That we were learning while we laughed.

The face that in our vision feels Again the venom that we flung, Transfigured to the world reveals The vigilance to which we clung. Shrewd, hallowed, harassed, and among The mysteries that are untold, The face we see was never young Nor could it ever have been old.

For he, to whom we had applied Our shopman's test of age and worth, Was elemental when he died, As he was ancient at his birth: The saddest among kings of earth, Bowed with a galling crown, this man Met rancor with a cryptic mirth, Laconic--and Olympian.

The love, the grandeur, and the fame Are bounded by the world alone; The calm, the smouldering, and the flame Of awful patience were his own; With him they are forever flown Past all our fond self-shadowings, Wherewith we cumber the Unknown As with inept, Icarian wings.

For we were not as other men: 'Twas ours to soar and his to see. But we are coming down again, And we shall come down pleasantly; Nor shall we longer disagree On what it is to be sublime, But flourish in our perigee And have one Titan at a time.

LINCOLN

_By Harriet Monroe_

And, lo! leading a blessed host comes one Who held a warring nation in his heart; Who knew love's agony, but had no part In love's delight; whose mighty task was done Through blood and tears that we might walk in joy, And this day's rapture own no sad alloy. Around him heirs of bliss, whose bright brows wear Palm leaves amid their laurels ever fair. Gaily they come, as though the drum Beat out the call their glad hearts knew so well; Brothers once more, dear as of yore, Who in a noble conflict nobly fell. Their blood washed pure yon banner in the sky, And quenched the brands laid 'neath these arches high-- The brave who, having fought, can never die.

Walt Mason, born at Columbus, Ontario, May 4, 1862. Self educated. Came to the United States 1880. Connected with the _Atchinson Globe_ 1885-7, later with _Lincoln_ (Nebraska) _State Journal_ and other papers; editorial paragrapher _Evening News_, Washington, D. C., 1893; associated with William Allen White on _Emporia_ (Kansas) _Gazette_ since 1907. His rhymes and prose poems are widely copied in America.

THE EYES OF LINCOLN

Sad eyes that were patient and tender, Sad eyes that were steadfast and true, And warm with the unchanging splendor Of courage no ills could subdue!

Eyes dark with the dread of the morrow, And woe for the day that was gone, The sleepless companions of sorrow, The watchers that witnessed the dawn.

Eyes tired from the clamor and goading And dim from the stress of the years, And hallowed by pain and foreboding And strained by repression of tears.

Sad eyes that were wearied and blighted By visions of sieges and wars Now watch o'er a country united From the luminous slopes of the stars!

Arthur Guiterman, author, born of American parentage, at Vienna, Austria, November 20, 1871. Editorial work on _Woman's Home Companion_, _Literary Digest_ and other magazines since 1891. Author of _Betel Nuts_, 1907; _Guest Book_, 1908; _Rubiayat_, including the _Literary Omar_, 1909, and _Orestes_ (with Andre Tridon), 1909. Contributor chiefly of ballad, lyric verse and short stories to magazines and newspapers.

HE LEADS US STILL

Dare we despair? Through all the nights and days Of lagging war he kept his courage true. Shall Doubt befog our eyes? A darker haze But proved the faith of him who ever knew That Right must conquer. May we cherish hate For our poor griefs, when never word nor deed Of rancor, malice, spite, of low or great, In his large soul one poison-drop could breed?

He leads us still. O'er chasms yet unspanned Our pathway lies; the work is but begun; But we shall do our part and leave our land The mightier for noble battles won. Here Truth must triumph, Honor must prevail; The nation Lincoln died for cannot fail!

S. Weir Mitchell, born at Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, February 15, 1829. Educated in grammar school, and University of Pennsylvania, but was not graduated because of illness during senior year; Doctor of Medicine, Jefferson Medical College, 1850; LL.D., Harvard, 1886; Edinburgh, 1895; Princeton, 1896; Toronto, 1896; Jefferson Medical College, Philadelphia, 1910. Established practice in Philadelphia. Author of many works on treatment of diseases. _Collected Poems_, 1896-1909; _Youth of Washington_, 1904; _A Diplomatic Adventure_, 1905; _The Mind Reader_, 1907; _A Christmas Venture_, 1907; _John Sherwood, Ironmaster_, 1911.

LINCOLN

Chained by stern duty to the rock of State, His spirit armed in mail of rugged mirth, Ever above, though ever near to earth, Yet felt his heart the cruel tongues that sate Base appetites and, foul with slander, wait Till the keen lightnings bring the awful hour When wounds and suffering shall give them power. Most was he like to Luther, gay and great, Solemn and mirthful, strong of heart and limb. Tender and simple, too; he was so near To all things human that he cast out fear, And, ever simpler, like a little child, Lived in unconscious nearness unto Him Who always on earth's little ones hath smiled.

George Alfred Townsend was born in Georgetown, Delaware, January 30, 1841. In 1860 he began writing for the press and speaking in public, and in 1860 adopted the profession of journalism. In 1862 he became a war correspondent for the _New York World_, the _Chicago Tribune_ and other papers, and made an enviable reputation as a descriptive writer. He also published a number of books both of prose and poetry.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

The peaceful valley reaching wide, The wild war stilled on every hand; On Pisgah's top our prophet died, In sight of promised land.

Low knelt the foeman's serried fronts, His cannon closed their lips of brass,-- The din of arms hushed all at once To let this good man pass.

A cheerful heart he wore alway, Though tragic years clashed on the while; Death sat behind him at the play-- His last look was a smile.

No battle-pike his march imbrued, Unarmed he went midst martial mails, The footsore felt their hopes renewed To hear his homely tales.

His single arm crushed wrong and thrall That grand good will we only dreamed, Two races wept around his pall, One saved and one redeemed.

The trampled flag he raised again, And healed our eagle's broken wing; The night that scattered armed men Saw scorpions rise to sting.