And then he died a martyr's death-- Forgiveness in his latest breath, And peace upon his dying lips. He died for me; he died for you; Heaven help us if his memory slips Out of our hearts! His soul was true And clean and beautiful. What saith Dull history that reckoneth But coldly? That he was a man Who loved his fellows as few can; And that he hated every sham-- Our great, gaunt, patient Abraham.
Majestic, sweet, was Washington; And Jefferson was like the sun-- He glorified the simplest thing He touched; and Andrew Jackson seems The impress of a fiery king To leave upon us: these in dreams Are oft before us; but the one Whose vast work was so simply done-- The Lincoln of our war-tried years-- Has all our deepest love; in tears, We chant the In Memoriam Of great, gaunt, patient Abraham.
This poem, which is considered one of the two best tributes ever paid to Lincoln, the other being Walt Whitman's O Captain! My Captain! is a tremendously virile and earnest summing up of the meaning of the man (Lincoln) and his life; a lesson in patriotism and a masterful piece of hero worship.
When the Norn-Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour Greatening and darkening as it hurried on, She left the Heaven of Heroes and came down To make a man to meet the mortal need. She took the tried clay of the common road-- Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth, Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy; Tempered the heap with thrill of mortal tears; Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff. It was a stuff to hold against the world, A man to match our mountains, and compel The stars to look our way and honor us.
The color of the ground was in him, the red earth; The tang and odor of the primal things; The rectitude and patience of the rocks; The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn; The courage of the bird that dares the sea; The justice of the rain that loves all leaves; The pity of the snow that hides all scars; The loving-kindness of the wayside well; The tolerance and equity of light That gives as freely to the shrinking weed As to the great oak flaring to the wind-- To the grave's low hill as to the Matterhorn That shoulders out the sky.
And so he came. From prairie cabin up to 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.