Ay o ;♦ -i* -^i. • .^"^ -o ^ . . • *-o< r *^o< **-.< >°v. 5>^ ^<: ^-..^^ '.• J.°^*, V ^•1°* i-^/isik-X y':i>--% y^lrtasrA / ^•^^ -^i^' "^^c,^^ :^M>^^ ^^^A^ ;SK5i'. •<^. .-^ v-^^ 6^^-. ^o^c.*^" • ♦ o 3^r ^• .*•!*- ik- °v, >*.'j^%*^ .o*..--.*o, .**\.--.X THE LINCOLN BOOK OF POEMS THE LINCOLN BOOK OF POEMS WILLIAM L. STIDGER BOSTON RICHARD G. BADGER THE OORHAM PRESS I9II Copyright igii by William L. Stidg«t All Rights Reserved THE GORHAM PRESS BOSTON, U. S. ©CI.A3033'»8 CONTENTS Pages Lincoln's Heart an Aeolian Harp 7 Happy When Others Were Happy, Sorry When Others Were Sad 8 Just be Kind 9 Where There Grew a Thistle 9 Acquainted With Grief 1 1 The Humble Walk of Life 13 That Wondrous Name 14 "With Him I Cannot Fail" 15 The Pure Thread 16 That Sacred Hour 17 Flow Gently Now, Sweet Sangamon 18 The Sangamon's Glory 19 At the Grave of Anne Rutledge 21 "I Cannot Forget" 23 Beside White Cots 24 Lincoln's Gethsemane 25 The Face of Lincoln 26 "Father Abraham" They Called Him 27 The Path he Trod— The Path of the Hill. . . 28 His Entrance to Ford's Theatre 29 The Storm and the Calm 30 "Now He Belongs to the Ages" 31 LINCOLN'S HEART AN AEOLIAN HARP Open to the gentle touch of every tiny breeze That drifts along the river o'er the fields and trees; Atune to every breath of wind that wavers on the hill, A breath of harmony and song, that breaths above the rill. Aeolian Harp of highly tempered, vibrant strings; Aeolian Harp that whispers, crys, and laughs, and sings Athrough the sunny day, and through the wind tossed night; An answering chord of sympathy to every breath — or dark or light! Open, his heart to every gentle touch of every tiny pain That came into the childish heart when baby hopes were slain; Atune to every cruel hurt that moaned athrough the land, A soothing touch beside white cots, of rough yet gentle hand; Aeolian Harp of highly tempered, vibrant strings Responding quick to all the pain of bitter things That came to weary hearts; with joy responding to the breeze Of joy that played in laughter in and out among the happy leaves. And then in turn wept bitter tears with every Mother's pain, Because of brother, father, son, in cruel battle slain. Ah, Harp atune to every wind that blows along the hill; Ah, Heart that vibrates to the pulse of every hu- man ill! HAPPY WHEN OTHERS WERE HAPPY SORRY WHEN OTHERS WERE SAD "Nothing would make me more miserable than to believe you miserable, nothing more happy than to know you were so." Lincoln, in a letter writ- ten to Miss Mary Owens, August i6th, 1837. Springfield, 111. Happy when others were happy, Sorry when others were sad; Such was the love of his great true heart. Such was the soul that he had! Smiled with the boy at his playtime, Laughed with his brave soldier men; Stories of fun and of frolic Rang through the camping place, when Lincoln with tender heart journeyed that way. Loud rang the mirth and the laughter. Droll was the wit and the story that day. Happy when others were happy. Sorry when others were sad; Such was the love of his great true heart, Such was the soul that he had! Boy on the night watch is sleeping, Homesick, and weary worn lad; Mother comes, broken, and weeping. Pleading, and yearning and sad; Finds a great heart full of pity, Finds a sad head bended low. Out of that room full of gladness With tear bedimmed eyes see her go! Happy when others were happy. Sorry when others were sad; Such was the love of his great true heart, Such was the soul that he had! 8 JUST BE KIND "After all, the one meaning of life is simply to be kind." Lincoln. Never Seer of any age has told the world Truth more tender, more eternal; No philosopher of might has ever hurled Across the far flung reaches of the years Truth more virile, truth more pregnant With promise born of the eternal Christ himself; Born of suffering, and pain, and tears; Promised hope to all the world of human kind ; — Easing of the wearing world old fears; And yet, 'tis only this, just to be kind, to be kind! Universal language, though unspoken, of mankind; Understood instinctively by beast as well as man; Whether here in halls of learning or in yonder slough we find Him groveling in the worm fed slime, and dirt, and mire, Seeing him, nor blue spread stretch above, nor God- like heart of love; Understood by worshipper of wind, or earth, or fire; Wise or foolish, high or lowly; all will understand; All the world of throbbing, breathing, living kind! If you'll do only this: just to be kind, to be kind! WHERE THERE GREW A THISTLE "I have not done much, but this I have done — wherever I have found a thistle growing I have tried to pluck it up, and in its place I have planted a flower." — Lincoln. Ah Lincoln, many a flower of joy and hope You planted where the thistles grew In weary hearts that beat in bitter pain, Nor pity, love, nor comfort knew; Until YOU came that way with open hand And scattered seeds of flowers in the sand. Full many a little child with tear stained face Could point with pride and joy along the way Where erst while was a stony, stumbling place That you smoothed o'er one stormy, dismal day. And earthed the seed of wondrous, Fairy Flowers, Which eased the tears and gilded sweet, the hours. And many, many soldiers boys in stress and pain, Aweep for lack of love, and tender care. Have learned to breath with reverence your name, Because, along their thorny pathways there You planted seeds of love that bloomed, to be Flowers of peace, and rest, and sweet beauty. And, Mothers too, will long remember you. Because, along their weary road of life Where cruel thorns, and thistles grew. You rendered sweeter far the bitter strife Of war, and death, by sowing seeds, and dropping tears That flowers of pity still might bloom along those years. Teach us, Oh kindly man, of Kingly heart To stiflSe all the thistles and the thorns ; To play, with Thine own sweetness, well our part In life's sad drama, though our way be drear As yours was once ; and help us keep aback the tears By planting seeds of flowers ever3rsvhere we go; As you, by leaving flowers of love, where thistles grow! lO "ACQUAINTED WITH GRIEF" "I have been too familiar with disappointments to be very much chagrined with defeat". Spoken by Lincoln in his first public address at Salem, March 9th, 1832. A little lad he was when first he knew the pain of grief ; 'Mother's little Soldier, comrade, Mother's little Man' She called him, sounding deep, as only Mothers can His childish heart, unearthing qualities that seemed beyond belief. Warm, and sweet was that dear comradship, as Summer sun Through nine ambitious, reaching years of tender, sweet boyhood — When suddenly, a morning, bleak and drear, broke o'er his little world And God had taken from his life that understanding one. Ah yes, he knew what disappointment meant; His was a life with deepest sorrow blent! In early manhood's breaking dawn he felt again that thrust of pain. Comrade was she, dear and tender flower of woman- hood. Who came, and soothed, and loved, and ever un- derstood. His hopes had world wide grown since down his rugged path she came! Tender, deep, was that dear comradeship, as brood- ing stream When Summer winds of Southland play along its flowered way; II Then suddenly, black clouds drove back the glory of that day, And she was gone from him ; — alone he stood, shat- tered his dream. Ah yes, he knew what disappointment meant; His was a life with deepest sorrow blent! A little lad with happy face to cheer a lonely Fath- er heart Came to him in the wearied years of that long, cruel, bitter strife Of war, and pain, when sorrow brooded o'er his saddened life. Alone he stood from all the world, save that one lit- tle soul, apart. Close, and sad was that dear comradeship, as Au- tumn days Are dear to hearts that weep, and souls that live in loneliness. But suddenly his great heart fills with saddened pain and stress — The little lad is gone ; — Ah lonely man, who walks in lonely ways! Ah yes, he knew what disappointment meant; His was a life with deepest sorrow blent! 12 THE HUMBLE WALK OF LIFE "I was born, and have ever remained, in the most humble walks of life". Spoken by Lincoln in his first address to the people of Sangamon County, Salem, 111., on the 9th of March, 1832. His first public address. Yes, Lincoln, you have walked the humble walks of life; You have known the way of pain, and bitter strife; Sprang you from dear Mother Earth, her noble son, And Man of Might, with soul triumphant, stalwart one! Yes, Lincoln, common ways have known your mighty tread; Humble paths o'er which your strident foot-falls led; But you have given glory to the poor man's weary load. The pack the humble man bears down life's com- mon road! The common man is King of All men living now, since You have trod the common path with princely rev- erence. And we have learned to love the common man the more Because you, Lincoln, trod that Holy way before! 13 THAT WONDROUS NAME! "I cannot but know what you all know, that without a name, perhaps without a reason why I should have a name, there has fallen upon me a task such as did not even rest upon the Father of his country." From an address to the legislature of Ohio, Feb. 13th, 1861. "Lincoln", name that men now speak with reverent hearts, 'Tis true, was once unknown, unsought, unfamed Of men, unspoken in the far spread, untilled parts Of his own land, a great eternal soul unnamed By human ken, yet christened well by an eternal hand To raise a sunken race, and save his native land ! "Lincoln", name that all the world has come to know; Name that all men speak with piteous, tender touch, Because he knew the way of thorny paths to go; Because, like million weary souls, he suffered much ! Because, like Christ of Calvary, he loved all those Who suffered pain, as one, who, suffering knows! "Lincoln", name that shall be whispered down The murmuring corridors of changing years. And centuries that, whirling, come and go; Name that gathers 'round it hallowed mist of tears ; Name that centuries will cut like glacial grooves Deep in the breast of time, the coming worlds to move! 14 "WITH HIM I CANNOT FAIL" "Without the assistance of that Divine Being I cannot succeed. With that assistance I cannot fail. Trusting in him who can go with me, and remain with you, and be everywhere for good, let us con- fidently hope that all will yet be well." Lincoln. What Faith, what Trust, what Hope was yours Ah, Man of Might, of stalwart strength ! Your faith unhemmed by swinging doors Of minster, church, or stately length Of steeple spire; by creed, or race; But in the Eternal's ever kindly grace You trusted, knowing that you could not fail! What confidence that held you strong All through the blackened, dreary night Of war, so gruelling, so bitter, and so long? What deeper insight made you know the right When all your world was saying you were wrong. And cruel cries of hate came from the countless throng ? Ah, it was because you trusted God, and knew you could not fail! What love was it that kept you kindly sweet When your own life was touched with sorrow's sear? And all the world that seemed to you most meet Grew black ; when she that seemed to you most dear Was gone, and sorrow deeply hovered over you? How was it that you held you nobly true? Ah, it was because you trusted, knowing that HE would not fail! 15 THE PURE THREAD Into the strong man's life there came At this time, one whose softening touch Upon his rugged life had much To do with all his tender fame. Ann Rutledge was the daughter of An old romantic southern home Where often in the southern gloam She dreamed her dream of future love. When Lincoln met her first she seemed A simple Rose touched, timid maid, A Fairy of the dale and glade, Unspoiled, unblighted as she dreamed. All who knew her loved her, when They saw the beauty of her soul. And e'en to-day great tear drops roll From eyes of those who knew her then. Strong Lincoln learned to love her with Such love as lasts beyond the years; A love untouched of hurt or fears; A love but such as great souls give! Into life's motely fabric he Was weaving one pure thread of love To bind his heart to God above, And link his soul eternally! s6 THAT SACRED HOUR ("Lincoln was sent for and spent one hour with Ann Rutledge before she died.") Ida M. Tarbell. For you and me to pry into that chamber there, Where she was lying, pale and weak, with golden hair About her face, and eyes of love once more full bright When he came in, at last, for all to say 'Good- Night' ; Would be the direst sacrilege, though deep our love! Just two that scene was for, — and God above ! One hour alone with her, one anguished hour he spent ; No human eye to see his pain, no comfort, save the heaven lent Its sunshine creeping through the open door to light her dying face; A symbol of the light that was for her beyond the bode of human place. No spoken word from that sad hour has yet been told mankind; But see the piteous man who stumbles out, broken groping, blind! 17 FLOW GENTLY NOW, SWEET SANGA- MON (The Sangamon Is the river beside which Lin- coln and Ann Rutledge used to wander in their love days, and beside which Ann Rutledge is now buried.) Sweet Sangamon flow gently now, For she sleeps here, her whitened brow And slender form relaxed in rest. Her grave in flowered splendor dressed. Flow gently now, it does not seem That she is dead, but just adream Beside Thy softly flowing stream. Flow silently, sweet Sangamon, While evening shadows creep along The pathways leading to her grave. Where gentle breezes waft and wave. Flow gently now^ it does not seem That she is dead, but just adream Beside Thy softly flowing stream. Speak softly, O sweet Sangamon, Do not disturb that saddened one; That 'Man of Sorrows' kneeling there Amid the evening's hallowed air. Just whisper now; it does not seem That she is dead, but just adream Beside Thy softly flowing stream. Far from this scene flow on, flow on To other lands sweet Sangamon, But ne'er forget that Thou hast seen This grave of love, this spot of green! Flow gently then, sweet Sangamon To other lands flow on, flow on, And tell the world it does not seem That she is dead, but just adream Beside Thy softly flowing stream. i8 THE SANGAMON'S GLORY Ah, Sangamon awind among the little hills, Full fed by many bursting brooks, and tumbling rills, Until Thy widening, wandering bed Through broadening, flowered banks of green is led ! What beauties here of hill, and wood, and field; Of grasses soft, and flowers, many hued, Thy path- ways yield! What waters clear, and shadowing myriad leaves Are fluttering in Thy darkened depth where spreading trees Bend over Thee to touch Thy breast with finger tips of love! What massive, fleeting banks of snowy clouds above Are mirrored in Thy passive, dreaming, beauteous eyes! What fire of red, and purpled evening's darkened skies At times seem resting on Thy Mother breast. As day-light sinks to night below the wolding west! And yet. Oh Sangamon of beauteous, wondrous mem. To lingering, loving, memory haunted lovers it would seem That Thou art glorious, not because of these Thy flowers, shadowed leaves, and bending trees; Thy banks of green enclosing tender mother brea!st; Nor yet because of Thy reflected beauties o' the west ; But Thou art wondrous, more, O haunted stream Because, upon Thy banks THEY dreamed their dream Of love of home to be, of hope the future held When their two lives the coming years would weld lo one great heart; and thus, they, wandering, talked ^ 19 Of love, and home, as down thy winding, flowered paths they walked At evening time amid the scented days of balmy June, When love, and flowers were bursting into living bloom. And birds were mating in the new massed bowers of leaves. And throbbing songs were bursting from Thy spreading trees! 'Twas on this very spot of green they stood; They wandered hand in hand athrough this very wood ; Aye, over these same hills at sunset time they strolled And stalwart Lincoln breathed into her heart the story old Of love, and hope, and home, while blushing wo- manhood In all its purity, with lowered eyes all meekly stood Beside the noble man; Ann Rutledge, daughter of a Southern home. Woman of tenderness, cheeks of Roses yet unblown ; Tears of joy, pulse of stirring dawn; — just here. Perhaps upon this very knoll, full many a year Ago, this love, that all the world has known Was born, amid the subtle charm of evening's shad- owed gloam. Because of that, O Sangamon, O beauteous stream We tread Thy sacred paths with footsteps reverent. And glory in Thy many flashing, shimmering gleams Of light, — but walk with prayer, our heads in love full bent. Because THEY walked these woodland, cloistered halls. So shall we walk this day amid Thy myriad memory calls! 20 AT THE GRAVE OF ANN RUTLEDGE (The grave of Ann Rutledge is marked by a simple stone, with name, and date of birth and death carved on it.) "Ann Rutledge", just a simple stone. Half buried in the slender grass. That name alone Carved with unskilled hand To mark the resting place Of that fair Southland Flower, Which bloomed in tender grace Along a strong man's sunless bower, To touch to sweetness for awhile A sad man's rugged life With summer sun, and smile; And then to die at Autumn time. And leave his world all desolate With hopelessness, and sad repine, As fades the flower on the hill, Or dies the Warbler's summer trill. "Ann Rutledge", just a simple stone That rests beneath a clump of trees; From other graves apart, alone; Where scented drifts of summer breeze Come softly stirring o' the leaves Of grass, all whispering her Of love now known in every wold, With all its pity, tenderness, and blur Of mist that falls the while Where'er that tear touched, tender tale is told. 21 "Ann Rutledge", — no monument to mark Your last earth resting place; No granite shaft towers to the sky In tall majestic grace — , But e'er for you, the breezes sigh And breathe above a simple stone. More fitting that for your sweet life! Itself untouched of bitter strife ; Of envy's forward clutch for fame To crown a king and win him fame; No Cleopatra's wiles were yours; No Helen's Troy e'er op'ed its doors That you might enter robed in gold ; No Guinevere a king's life sold ; For you were but a tender child of Goodness, and of light. Foreordained to gleam the night Of greater king than story holds. Or history's great page unfolds; Your king, a king of greater worth Than all the rulers of the earth! "Ann Rutledge", and no other mark To tell the world your tender fame. Above your rest there sings a Lark; About your life, about your name The glory of unopened flowers Lingers in the twilight hours, Suggesting in their sweet perfume The morning promise of the noon; A promise that the wonder Will Of God hushed, e'er it found fulfill. And yet the sweetness of your life We see in that great saddened man, For your dear touch to him was more Than ever king has felt before! Ah, sad thought: You ne'er saw him, when He wore his country's diadem Of Love, and Faith, and Willing Trust For like his own great life's dear hope, Your's ended e'er the bud was broke! 22 "I CANNOT FORGET" (From a scene in Lincoln's life as taken from Ida M. Tarbell's History of Lincoln.) How many tired, broken hearts have sent that bitter cry Throbbing out into the night against a blackened sky! How many hearts have suffered too, that could not e'er forget! How many souls though long apart are longing, longing yet! How many eyes have peered out through the rain and snow at night With vision dimned and dying soul all seared with bitter blight! How many arms have upward reached as though the loved one there Would come with gentle breath at night from out the evening air! How many eyes have filled with tears, adream athrough the drifting years; How many, many lips have cried ; how many, many souls have died, Because, brave souls, their tender hearts could not forget ! 23 BESIDE WHITE COTS See that rugged man there, kneeling Down beside that wounded boy, With a word of subtle healing. Tender word of love and joy! Who is that kingly one? 'Tis the great, and kind Lincoln! Reaching out his big rough hands Touching gently, fevered brow; (All the sorrow in the land Makes his great soul tender now!) Who is that kindly one? 'Tis the tender man, Lincoln! Smoothing back the ruffled hair, Holding close the pain clenched palms. Breathing words of holy prayer. Sweetly reading comfort psalms. Who is that kindly one? 'Tis the reverent Lincoln! See him bending low his head Where that soldier breathes his last. Kneeling down beside the bed. Tears are falling free and fast. Who is that kindly one? 'Tis the saddened man, Lincoln! 24 LINCOLN'S GETHSEMANE The night was gloom, the city streets were bare and lone. The war was cruel with blood of slain, and many a home Was dark that night for lack of music, lack of song, And no laugh rang out through the darkened gloam. As that tall, sad faced person passed the streets along. A row of empty houses, cheerless, with unlighted fires He passes as he walks along with deep, untold de- sires To end the war; but even then his human heart can hear the call Of God to fight the battle through though deep the pall. Then out along the fields amid the lowering night he roams Amid the hurt of soul, the slain of life, the deepen- ing gloams! And kneeling there beside a rugged storm flung rock Which many centuries had scorned the sweeping shock ; He lifted up his weary soul, helpless, to God above; A soul all torn with doubt, and hurt, and Univer- sal Love; And cried: "Oh what am I, my God that Thou should'st bid me go To further ends! Oh, what am I, that Thou should'st trust me so?" 25 THE FACE OF LINCOLN That massive head is raised unto the sky ; A pleading look, a piteous, broken cry Goes up to God ; a cry of soul torn pain For all the weary, broken hearted, and the slain. And now the head is bowed in great humility While deepening lines of care, and world pity Furrow heavy lines in that brave, manly brow. Enough, sad heart. Thy soul to crush. Thy head to bow! Cheeks hollow, sunken with the awful strain Of midnight vigils filled with anxious pain ; Lips all aquiver, ever nigh to sympathetic tears Through all those weary, gloomy, saddened years. Eyes, Ah, 'tis here the hurt, within their depths, shows most! For here the bitter sadness of a sorrowing host Of suffering, yearning, crying, hungering souls. That, deep within that mighty heart of love he holds, Broods in those haunted, sleepless, wondering eyes, Like Autumn's sorrow for the dying leaves, which gloams the skies; Where all the sadness of a Nation's myriad pain, And all the travail of a thousand mothers' slain Is buried deep within their piteous, brooding sweep ! Ah, eyes that yearn, and eyes that turn to God, and eyes that weep! 26 'FATHER ABRAHAM" THEY CALLED HIM "Father Abraham" they called him, Spake it softly, spake it low, With a touch of sacred feeling — All his soldiers spake it so. When the battle's smoke was rolling. When the maimed were lying low, "Father Abraham" they spake it, — Spake it tenderly, and low. 'Round the Camp Fires in the even, When his "Boys" all tenderly Sang their songs of home, and mother; With the tear drops falling free. Always sang they of another, "Father Abraham", 'twas he! "Father Abraham", from white cots Spoken softly, with a gleam Of hope, and joy, and tender thoughts, From the dying breasts of men that seemed Nearer heaven than the earth; Place of pain where seemed a dirth Of tender hands, and tears, and words to pray, 'Till "Father Abraham" passed that way. 37 THE PATH HE TROD— THE PATH OF THE HILL Two pathways wind the varied tread of life That men may take: adown the meadowed stream Beside the murmuring river where the strife Of battle sounds but dim, like echoing dream That is so far away it seems a fairy tale, And not a bloody truth that turns men pale! Adown this flowered way are softened beds of green Where one may storied tales and poems glean. The other pathway leads across a barren hill All seared with many a pain and human ill ; Where grass is burned to black beneath the manly tread Of many thousand souls along that pathway dead! The petals of the flowers are crisp and dried; Beneath the burdened pain of war the fair have died! A weary traveler climbs with faltering pain That path of gloom where loyal hearts are slain! Two man have trod this barren, pain swept hill In sacrifice for sin and human ill. Fire blanched the winding way that path must lead ; The hearts of men who go its weary way must bleed ! Because, where ends the path, far trod, and high A cross stands bare, outlined against the lonely sky! 28 HIS ENTRANCE TO FORD'S THEATRE Ford's Theatre in Washington this night Is filled with people e'er the shadow light Of evening has died from out the west. And many a laugh, and many a jest Rings out from many happy hearts, From stately hall, from street, and marts. When Lincoln enters that great hall With many a shout and many a call Of joy and pride, and love, they all arise And ringing cheers reach to the skies! Then tender hearted Lincoln stands And reaches out his great rough hands — In blessing, waves them o'er their heads, While through his mind with muffled treads His ''Boys" in blue pass by, and tears Of sorrow trickle down each cheek. He waves his hand — he cannot speak ! Ah, Lincoln, you have suffered much! But now it seems, within your touch Is all that you have hungered for Through all the sad, and bitter war; The hope of all your life it seems; The fulfillment of all your dreams; — But tragedy of tragedies! Within the moment of your peace You are within the traitor's touch! Ah, Lincoln, you have suffered much! 29 THE STORM AND THE CALM For a moment the silence of death reigns in that building, vast; But as the truth is realized, a cry of vengeance rends the skies. And never w^as a scene more aw^ful than that thund- ering blast Of passionate and shrieking hate, and w^ilder, cruel cries Of "Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!" throbbing from the many breasts; A storm of hate, and vengeance, throbbing, lung- ing, plunging to its crest ! What a contrast wnth that how^ling storm w^ithout, is there Within the chamber where the martyred Lincoln lies, and where A solemn hush has fallen o'er the great men gath- ered in the room Where breathes the pale, unconscious form athrough the long night's silent gloom. At last the day light breaks above the country's saddened east While calmness sweet, spreads o'er his pale and wrinkled face, in peace Eternal, and the Modern Man of Sorrows passes to his rest. 30 "NOW HE BELONGS TO THE AGES" (Spoken by Secretary Stanton two minutes af- ter Lincoln had passed away.) Silence falls, unbroken save by sobs of strong men In that room, where Lincoln, at the morning hour's chime Passes out into the unknown from the world of hu- man ken. Gone his body and his life work from the world inclosed by time; But in the silence that was falling after breath of broken prayer. Words eternal broke the quiet like a bell toll on the air; Never in the world's wide story, wiser spoke nor Prophet, spoke nor Sages, Than these words that broke the silence: *'He be- longs now, to the Ages!" "To the Ages!" well you spoke it, Stanton of the massive mind ! He belongs, the years have shown it, to the world of human kind! Heard his story, where'er hearts throb o'er the world's far spreading way; Heard his story, children listen at the closing of the day; Heard his story, lovers speak it, in their hushed and saddened tones As they wander in the twilight dreaming of their coming homes ; Heard his story, statesmen tell it, with a thrill of pride and truth; 31 Heard his story, old men speak it to the country's growing youth. And the years have shown the Prophets, and the years have shown the Sages ; Writ in fire these words of wisdom,— "He belongs now, to the Ages!" 32 XI 03 ! 'bV ^-.c,^* .■4? *^\.-...^' 'oK .^• 3^"^. 'b9 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 018 360 333 4 M: '^'■:';V^i'''n ■A'-: -i-A.