The Poets' Lincoln: Tributes in Verse to the Martyred President

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The editor, 1915 - 249 страници
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Страница 173 - O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! O CAPTAIN ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is done ; The ship has weathered every rack, 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 grim and daring. But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies. Fallen cold and dead.
Страница xviii - Help, angels ! make assay : Bow, stubborn knees ; and, heart, with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe. All may be well.
Страница xi - In their bloom, And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb.
Страница 165 - Life may be given in many ways, And loyalty to truth be sealed As bravely in the closet as the field, So bountiful is Fate; But then to stand beside her, When craven churls deride her, To front a lie in arms and not to yield, This shows, methinks, God's plan And measure of a stalwart man, Limbed like the old heroic breeds, Who...
Страница 121 - 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.
Страница 165 - Nature, they say, doth dote, And cannot make a man Save on some worn-out plan, Repeating us by rote : For him her Old- World moulds aside she threw And, choosing sweet clay from the breast Of the unexhausted West, With stuff untainted shaped a hero new, Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true.
Страница 139 - OH, slow to smite and swift to spare, Gentle and merciful and just ! Who, in the fear of God, didst bear The sword of power, a nation's trust ! In sorrow by thy bier we stand, Amid the awe that hushes all, And speak the anguish of a land That shook with horror at thy fall. Thy task is done ; the bond are free : We bear thee to an honored grave. Whose proudest monument shall be The broken fetters of the slave. Pure was thy life ; its bloody close Hath placed thee with the sons of light, Among the...
Страница 66 - 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 human tears; Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff.
Страница 166 - Nothing of Europe here, Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still, Ere any names of Serf and Peer Could Nature's equal scheme deface And thwart her genial will; Here was a type of the true elder race, And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face.
Страница xvii - O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven; It hath the primal eldest curse upon't; A brother's murder! Pray can I not, Though inclination be as sharp as will: My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent; And, like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect. What if this cursed hand Were thicker than itself with brother's...

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