III. TRIBUTES TO THE MEMORY OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN. By William Cullen Bryant. O, slow to smite and swift to spare, In sorrow by the bier we stand, Amid the awe that hushes all, Thy task is done-the bond are free; The broken fetters of the slave. Pure was thy life; its bloody close Hath placed thee with the sons of light, Among the noble host of those Who perished in the cause of right. By Oliver Wendell Holmes. O Thou of soul and sense and breath, Unto Thy mighty angel, death, Our hearts lie buried in the dust Yet every murmuring voice is still, Our best loved we surrender. Dear Lord, with pitying eye behold Which Thou, through trials manifold, O let the blood by murder spilt Be Thou Thy orphaned Israel's friend, In One our broken Many blend, That none again may sever! Hear us, O Father, while we raise With trembling lips our songs of praise, FROM ENGLISHMEN. [The government of England sympathized with the Southern cause. The London Punch was particularly severe in its criticisms and cartoons on Mr. Lincoln. It pictured him as most uncouth and ludicrous. But that at his death the greatness and goodness of the man were fully appreciated is shown in the three poems which follow.] [From the London Punch.] You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier! His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face, His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt bristling hair, 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, Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain! Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet Say, scurril-jester, is there room for you? Yes, he had lived to shame me from my sneer- My shallow judgment I had learnt to rue, How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true; How humble, yet how hopeful, he could be; Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, |