The Poets' Lincoln: Tributes in Verse to the Martyred President
The editor, 1915 - 249 страници
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ABRAHAM LINCOLN American Author battle bear birth blood born brave Capitol Captain cause Church City close dark dead death dedicated died dream earth editor educated eyes face faith fame Father February feet fell field freedom friends gave give grave Hall hand hath head heart held Hero honor hope human Illinois John knew land leaves light living March martyr Massachusetts memory mighty mind monument nation's never noble o'er Ohio patient patriot peace Philadelphia Photograph poems praise present PRESIDENT LINCOLN published remains rest rise Senator singing Society song soul speech spirit Springfield stands star STATUE stories strife strong studied tears thee thou thought toil true truth United verse wait Washington West written wrote York
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 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...