Chapter 8

Paul Lawrence Dunbar, born of negro parents at Dayton, Ohio, June 27, 1872. Was graduated at the Dayton High School in 1891, and since then has devoted himself to literature and journalism. He has written _Oak and Ivy_ (poems); _Lyrics of Lowly Life_ (poems), and _The Uncalled_ (a novel). Since 1898 he has been on the staff of the Librarian of Congress.

LINCOLN

Hurt was the Nation with a mighty wound, And all her ways were filled with clam'rous sound. Wailed loud the South with unremitting grief, And wept the North that could not find relief. Then madness joined its harshest tone to strife: A minor note swelled in the song of life Till, stirring with the love that filled his breast, But still, unflinching at the Right's behest Grave Lincoln came, strong-handed, from afar,-- The mighty Homer of the lyre of war! 'Twas he who bade the raging tempest cease, Wrenched from his strings the harmony of peace, Muted the strings that made the discord,--Wrong, And gave his spirit up in thund'rous song. Oh, mighty Master of the mighty lyre! Earth heard and trembled at thy strains of fire: Earth learned of thee what Heaven already knew, And wrote thee down among her treasured few!

Alice Cary was born in Mount Healthy, near Cincinnati, Ohio, April 20, 1820. Her first book of poems, with her sister Phoebe, was published in 1850. Her poems and prose writings were pictures from life and nature, among which were _Pictures of Memory_, _Mulberry Hill_, _Coming Home_ and _Nobility_. She died at her home in New York City, February 12, 1871. This poem is inscribed to the _London Punch_.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

No glittering chaplet brought from other lands! As in his life, this man, in death, is ours; His own loved prairies o'er his "gaunt, gnarled hands," Have fitly drawn their sheet of summer flowers!

What need hath he now of a tardy crown, His name from mocking jest and sneer to save When every plowman turns his furrow down As soft as though it fell upon his grave?

He was a man whose like the world again Shall never see, to vex with blame or praise; The landmarks that attest his bright, brief reign, Are battles, not the pomps of gala days!

The grandest leader of the grandest war That ever time in history gave a place,-- What were the tinsel flattery of a star To such a breast! or what a ribbon's grace!

'Tis to th' man, and th' man's honest worth, The Nation's loyalty in tears upsprings; Through him the soil of labor shines henceforth, High o'er the silken broideries of kings.

The mechanism of eternal forms-- The shifts that courtiers put their bodies through-- Were alien ways to him: his brawny arms Had other work than posturing to do!

Rose Terry Cooke was born in West Hartford, Connecticut, February 17, 1827. Graduated at Hartford Female Seminary in 1843. She has written many short stories and a number of books of poems.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

Hundreds there have been, loftier than their kind, Heroes and victors in the world's great wars: Hundreds, exalted as the eternal stars, By the great heart, or keen and mighty mind; There have been sufferers, maimed and halt and blind, Who bore their woes in such triumphant calm That God hath crowned them with the martyr's palm; And there were those who fought through fire to find Their Master's face, and were by fire refined. But who like thee, oh Sire! hath ever stood Steadfast for truth and right, when lies and wrong Rolled their dark waters, turbulent and strong; Who bore reviling, baseness, tears and blood Poured out like water, till thine own was spent, Then reaped Earth's sole reward--a grave and monument!

Frederick Lucian Hosmer, born at Framingham, Massachusetts, October 16, 1840. Graduated at Harvard in 1869. Ordained in Unitarian Ministry at Northboro, Massachusetts, in 1869. Author of _The Way of Life_, _The Thought of God, in Hymns and Poems_.

LINCOLN

The prairies to the mountains call, The mountains to the sea; From shore to shore a nation keeps Her martyr's memory.

Though lowly born, the seal of God Was in that rugged face; Still from the humble Nazareths come The Saviours of the race.

With patient heart and vision clear He wrought through trying days-- "Malice toward none, with Charity for all," Unswerved by blame or praise.

And when the morn of peace broke through The battle's cloud and din, He hailed with joy the promised land, He might now enter in.

He seemed as set by God apart, The winepress trod alone; He stands forth an uncrowned king, A people's heart his throne.

Land of our loyal love and hope, O Land he died to save, Bow down, renew today thy vows Beside his martyr grave!

Charles Monroe Dickinson, born at Lowville, New York, November 15, 1842. Educated at Fairfield (New York), Seminary and Lowville Academy. Admitted to the bar in 1865; practiced law in the State of Pennsylvania, at Binghamton, New York, and in New York City 1865-77, when he abandoned the profession because of broken health. Editor and proprietor of _Binghamton Republican_, 1878-1911. In 1892, upon his suggestion and initiative the various news organizations were combined into the present Associated Press. Presidential elector, 1896; United States Consul-General to Turkey, 1897-1906; Diplomatic agent to Bulgaria, 1901-1903. While acting in this capacity the American missionary, Ellen M. Stone, was carried off by brigands, but released through his settlement and efforts. Member board to draft regulations for government of American consular service 1906; American Consul-General at-large, 1906-October 1, 1908. Author of _History of Dickinson Family_, 1885; _The Children and Other Verses_, 1889; part of political history of State of New York, 1911.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

If any one hath doubt or fear That this is Freedom's chosen clime-- That God hath sown and planted here The richest harvest field of Time-- Let him take heart, throw off his fears, As he looks back a hundred years.

Cities and fields and wealth untold, With equal rights before the law; And, better than all lands and gold-- Such as the old world never saw-- Freedom and peace, the right to be, And honor to those who made us free.

Our greatness did not happen so, We owe it not to chance or fate; In furnace heat, by blow on blow, Were forged the things that make us great; And men still live who bore that heat, And felt those deadly hammers beat.

Not in the pampered courts of kings, Not in the homes that rich men keep, God calls His Davids with their slings, Or wakes His Samuels from their sleep; But from the homes of toil and need Calls those who serve as well as lead.

Such was the hero of our race; Skilled in the school of common things, He felt the sweat on Labor's face, He knew the pinch of want, the sting The bondman felt, and all the wrong The weak had suffered from the strong.

God passed the waiting centuries by, And kept him for our time of need-- To lead us with his courage high-- To make our country free indeed; Then, that he be by none surpassed, God crowned him martyr at the last.

Let speech and pen and song proclaim Our grateful praise this natal morn; Time hath preserved no nobler name, And generations yet unborn Shall swell the pride of those who can Claim Lincoln as their countryman.

The building is a plain brick structure, three stories high, seventy-one feet front and one hundred feet deep. It was originally constructed and occupied as a Baptist Church, but at the beginning of the war was converted into a theatre, though never used for that purpose after the assassination of Lincoln. The government purchased it for one hundred thousand dollars, and it is now used as a branch of the Record and Pension Division of the War Department. President Lincoln was shot by J. Wilkes Booth at 10.20 o'clock P.M. on the evening of April 14, 1865, while seated in his private box in the theatre.

SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS!

_By Robert Leighton_

"Sic semper tyrannis!" the assassin cried, As Lincoln fell. O villain! who than he More lived to set both slave and tyrant free? Or so enrapt with plans of freedom died, That even thy treacherous deed shall glance aside And do the dead man's will by land and sea; Win bloodless battles, and make that to be Which to his living mandate was denied! Peace to that gentle heart! The peace he sought For all mankind, nor for it dies in vain. Rest to the uncrowned king, who, toiling, brought His bleeding country through that dreadful reign; Who, living, earned a world's revering thought, And, dying, leaves his name without a stain.

_Liverpool, England, May 5, 1865_

Tom Taylor wrote the following poem, which appeared in the _London Punch_, May 6, 1865. The engraving is a facsimile of the one published in the paper at the head of the poem.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN, FOULLY ASSASSINATED

You lay a wreath on murdered LINCOLN'S bier, _You_, who with mocking pencil wont to trace, Broad for self-complacent British sneer, His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face,

His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair, His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, His lack of all we prize as debonair, Of power or will to shine, of art to please,

_You_, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh, Judging each step, as though the way were plain: Reckless, so it could point its paragraph, Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain.

Beside this corpse, that bears for winding sheet The Stars and Stripes, he lived to rear anew, Between the mourners at his head and feet, Say, scurrile-jester, is there room for _you_?

Yes, he had lived to shame me from my sneer, To lame my pencil, and confute my pen-- To make me own this hind of princes peer, This rail-splitter a true-born king of men.

My shallow judgment I had learnt to rue, Noting how to occasion's height he rose, How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true, How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows.

How humble, yet how hopeful he could be; How in good fortune and in ill the same; Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame.

He went about his work--such work as few Ever had laid on head and heart and hand-- As one who knows, where there's a task to do, Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command.

Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow, That God makes instruments to work His will, If but that will we can arrive to know, Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill.

So he went forth to battle, on the side That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's, As in his peasant boyhood he had plied His warfare with rude Nature's thwarting mights--

The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil, The iron-bark that turned the lumberer's axe, The rapid, that o'erbears the boatmen's toil, The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks,

The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear-- Such were the needs that helped his youth to train; Rough culture--but such trees large fruit may bear, If but their stocks be of right girth and grain.

So he grew up, a destined work to do, And lived to do it--four long-suffering years; Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through, And then he heard the hisses change to cheers,

The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise, And took both with the same unwavering mood; Till, as he came on light from darking days, And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood,

A felon hand, between the goal and him, Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest,-- And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim, Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest!

The words of mercy were upon his lips, Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen, When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse To thoughts of peace on earth, good will to men.

The Old World and the New, from sea to sea, Utter one voice of sympathy and shame! Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high, Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came.

A deed accurst! Strokes have been struck before By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt If more of horror or disgrace they bore; But thy foul crime, like CAIN'S stands darkly out.

Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife, Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven; And with the martyr's crown crownest a life With much to praise, little to be forgiven!

Immediately after the President was shot in Ford's Theatre he was carried across the street to the house of William Petersen and placed on a single bed in a room at the end of the hall. All through that weary night the watchers stood by the bedside. He was unconscious every moment from the time the bullet entered his head until Dr. Robert King Stone, the family physician, announced at twenty-two minutes after seven on the following morning that he had breathed his last (April 15, 1865). Upon this Secretary Edwin M. Stanton, Secretary of War, in a low voice said: "_Now He Belongs to the Ages_."

THE DEATHBED

Silence falls, unbroken save by sobs of strong men In that room, where Lincoln, at the morning hour's chime Passed out into the unknown from the world of human ken. Gone his body and his life work from the world inclosed by time; But in the silence that was falling after breath of broken prayer, Words eternal broke the quiet like a bell toll on the air; Never in the world's wide story, wiser spoke nor Prophet, spoke nor Sages, Than these words that broke the silence: "He belongs now to the Ages!"

"To the Ages!" well you spoke it, Stanton of the massive mind! He belongs, the years have shown it, to the world of human kind! Heard his story, where'er hearts throb o'er the world's far spreading way; Heard his story, children listen at the closing of the day; Heard his story, lovers speak it in their hushed and saddened tones As they wander in the twilight, dreaming of their coming homes; Heard his story, statesmen tell it, with a thrill of pride and truth; Heard his story, old men speak it to the country's growing youth. And the years have shown the Prophets, and the years have shown the Sages; Writ in fire these words of wisdom, "He belongs now to the Ages!"

Marion Mills Miller was born at Eaton, Ohio, February 27, 1864. He was graduated from Princeton in 1886, and for several years thereafter was an instructor there in the English department. In 1889 he received the degree of Doctor of Literature from his Alma Mater. Since 1893 he has been engaged in literary and social reform work in New York City. He has published some verse and fiction, but his most notable work has been in the fields of translation and history. He has edited _The Classics--Greek and Latin_ (15 volumes), published in 1909, and _Great Debates in American History_ (14 volumes), published in 1913.

In 1907 he edited the Centenary Edition of _The Life and Works of Abraham Lincoln_ in 10 volumes, logically arranged for ready reference. The _Life of Lincoln_ was published separately in 1908 in two volumes. It is based on a manuscript by Henry C. Whitney, whose name it bears as author, although the second volume, _Lincoln, the President_, was largely written by Dr. Miller. The late Major William H. Lambert, president of the Lincoln Fellowship, called it "the best of the shorter biographies of Lincoln." Dr. Miller has also edited _The Wisdom of Lincoln_ (1908), a small book of extracts from Lincoln's speeches and writings. He wrote the following poem, "Lincoln and Stanton," especially for THE POETS' LINCOLN.

The first reference in it is to the Manny-McCormick case over the patent rights of the reaping machine, in which Lincoln had been at first selected as principal pleader, but was superseded by Edwin M. Stanton. Having thoroughly prepared himself, he offered his assistance to Stanton, but was brusquely repulsed. He was so hurt that he felt like leaving the court room, but decided, in loyalty to his client, to remain, and, leaving his place among counsel, took a seat in the audience. Despite his injured feelings he was filled with admiration for Stanton's able and successful conduct of the case. Lincoln, probably referring to a slur of Stanton reported to him, said that he would have to go back to Illinois and "study more law," since the "college-bred" lawyers were pushing hard the "cornfield" ones.

The second reference is to Stanton's criticism of Lincoln's conservative course during the first months of his Presidency; "that imbecile at the White House," he called him. Stanton as Attorney-General at the close of Buchanan's administration had done effective work in foiling the plans of the Confederacy, and he believed in forceful measures to put down the rebellion in its incipiency.

The third reference is to the virtually enforced resignation of Simon Cameron, Lincoln's first Secretary of War, and Lincoln's choice to succeed him of Stanton, whom he realized to be the best equipped man in the country for the place.

The fourth reference is to Stanton's remark by the bedside of Lincoln as the stricken President ceased breathing: "There lies the greatest leader of men the world ever saw."

LINCOLN AND STANTON

Lincoln had cause one man alone to hate: A fellow-lawyer, lacking in all grace, Who cast uncalled-for insult in his face When Lincoln as his colleague, with innate Courtesy, proffered aid. With pride inflate The scornful Stanton waved him to his place, Snapping, "I need no help to try this case"; And "cornfield lawyer" muttered of his mate.

And when, as captain of the Union ship, Lincoln drew sail before the gathering storm Till favoring winds the shrouds unfurled should fill, Stanton again curled his contemptuous lip And, with the impatience of a patriot warm, Sneered at the helmsman, "craven imbecile."

Laid was the course at length; the sails untried Were spread; the raw crew set at spar and coil. Now round the prow Charybdean waters boil And ever higher surges war's red tide. The mate who should the captain's care divide Has strengthless proved. Where shall, the foe to foil, A man be found able to bear the toil And stand, to steer the ship, by Lincoln's side?

Stanton he called! The bitter choice he made For country, not himself. The ship was driven By the great twain through war's abyss, again Into calm seas. Then Lincoln low was laid, And Stanton paid him highest tribute given To mortal: "Mightiest leader among men!"

Robert Mackay and his wife visited this historic house in 1902. They were met at the door and escorted through the various rooms containing the Collection by Little Josephine, and were deeply impressed at the knowledge she exhibited of Lincoln and the Collection, although she was but six years of age. Mr. Mackay was born at Virginia City, Nevada, April 22, 1871. Reporter _San Francisco Chronicle_, 1886. Worked on newspapers as printer, reporter and editor until 1895, when he traveled extensively over the world for the International News Syndicate; joined staff of the _New York World_ in 1899; managing editor of _Success Magazine_, 1900-1908. Editor the _Delineator_, 1908. Joined editorial department of the Frank A. Munsey Company in 1909, contributor of short stories, also other prose and verse.

THE HOUSE WHERE LINCOLN DIED

Above Judea's purple-mantled plain, There hovers still, among the ruins lone, The spirit of the Christ whose dying moan Was heard in heaven, and paid our debt in pain.

As subtle perfume lingers with the rose, Even when its petals flutter to the earth, So clings the potent mystery of the birth Of that deep love from which all mercy flows.

. . . . .

Within this house,--this room,--a martyr died, A prophet of a larger liberty,-- A liberator setting bondmen free, A full-orbed MAN, above mere mortal pride.