Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ABRAHAM LINCOLN, by TOM TAYLOR


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ABRAHAM LINCOLN, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: You lay a wreath on murdered lincoln's bier
Last Line: With much to praise, little to be forgiven.
Variant Title(s): British Tribute To Lincoln;punch's Apology
Subject(s): Lincoln, Abraham (1809-1865); Patriotism; Presidents, United States


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, 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.
My shallow judgment I had learned 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.
He went about his work, -- such work as few
Ever had laid on head and heart and hand, --
As one who knows, where there's a task to do,
Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace
command;
Who trusts the strength will with the burden
grow,
That God makes instruments to work his will,
If but that will we can arrive to know,
Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill.
So he went forth to battle, on the side
That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's,
As in his peasant boyhood he had plied
His warfare with rude Nature's thwarting
mights;
The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil,
The iron-bark, that turns the lumberer's axe,
The rapid, that o'erbears the boatman's toil,
The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks,
The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear, --
Such were the deeds that helped his youth to
train:
Rough culture, but such trees large fruit may
bear,
If but their stock be of right girth and grain.
So he grew up, a destined work to do,
And lived to do it: four long-suffering years'
Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through,
And then he heard the hisses change to cheers,
The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise,
And took both with the same unwavering
mood;
Till, as he came on light, from darkling days,
And seemed to touch the goal from where he
stood,
A felon hand, between the goal and him,
Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest,
And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim,
Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to
rest!
The words of mercy were upon lips,
Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen,
When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse
To thoughts of peace on earth, good-will to men.
The Old World and the New, from sea to sea,
Utter one voice of sympathy and shame:
Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high;
Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came!
A deed accurst! Strokes have been struck before
By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt
If more of horror or disgrace they bore;
But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly
out.
Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife,
Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven;
And with the martyr's crown crownest a life
With much to praise, little to be forgiven.




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