THE LINCOLN MONUMENT.

III.

TRIBUTES TO THE MEMORY OF ABRAHAM

LINCOLN.

By William Cullen Bryant.

O, 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 the 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 noblest 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 noble host of those

Who perished in the cause of right.

By Oliver Wendell Holmes.

O Thou of soul and sense and breath,
The ever-present Giver,

Unto Thy mighty angel, death,
All flesh thou dost deliver;
What most we cherish, we resign,
For life and death alike are Thine,
Who reignest Lord forever!

Our hearts lie buried in the dust
With him, so true and tender,
The patriot's stay, the people's trust,
The shield of the offender;

Yet every murmuring voice is still,
As, bowing to Thy sovereign will,

Our best loved we surrender.

Dear Lord, with pitying eye behold
This martyr generation,

Which Thou, through trials manifold,
Art showing Thy salvation!

O let the blood by murder spilt
Wash out Thy stricken children's guilt,
And sanctify our nation!.

Be Thou Thy orphaned Israel's friend,
Forsake Thy people never,

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,
And bless Thy name forever!

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!
You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace,
Broad for the 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, scurril-jester, is there room for you?

Yes, he had lived to shame me from my sneer-
To lame my pencil, and to 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.