But far in the south an iris spanned
The singing forests where sun rifts burned.
And the Commoner closed in the amber air
Two eyes and crossed two hands in prayer.
And our Lincoln learned life's lesson there.
Abraham Lincoln
BY RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.
[These are the concluding verses of a much longer poem, inspired by the death of Abraham Lincoln on April 15, 1865.]
O HONEST face, which all men knew!
O tender heart, but known to few!
O wonder of the age,
Cut off by tragic rage!
Peace! Let the long procession come,
For hark, the mournful, muffled drum,
The trumpet's wail afar,
And see, the awful car!
Peace! Let the sad procession go,
While cannon boom and bells toll slow.
And go, thou sacred car,
Bearing our woe afar!
Go, darkly borne, from State to State,
Whose loyal, sorrowing cities wait
To honor all they can
The dust of that good man.
Go, grandly borne, with such a train
As greatest kings might die to gain.
The just, the wise, the brave,
Attend thee to the grave.
And you, the soldiers of our wars,
Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars,
Salute him once again,
Your late commander-slain!
Yes, let your tears indignant fall,
But leave your muskets on the wall,
Your country needs you now
Beside the forge-the plough.
(When Justice shall unsheath her brand,— If Mercy may not stay her hand,
Nor would we have it so,—
She must direct the blow.)
And, children, you must come in bands,
With garlands in your little hands,
Of blue and white and red,
To strew before the dead.
So sweetly, sadly, sternly goes
The Fallen to his last repose.
Beneath no mighty dome,
But in his modest home;
The churchyard where his children rest,
The quiet spot that suits him best,
There shall his grave be made,
And there his bones be laid.
And there his countrymen shall come,
With memory proud, with pity dumb,
And strangers far and near,
For many and many a year.
For many a year and many an age,
While History on her ample page
The virtues shall enroll
Of that Paternal Soul.
Sit Down, Sad Soul
BY BRYAN WALLER PROCTER.
SIT down, sad soul, and count
The moments flying:
Come, tell the sweet amount
That's lost by sighing!
How many smiles?-a score?
Then laugh, and count no more;
For day is dying!
Lie down, sad soul, and sleep,
And no more measure
The flight of Time, nor weep
The loss of leisure;
But here, by this lone stream,
Lie down with us and dream
Of starry treasure!
We dream: do thou the same:
We love forever:
We laugh; yet few we shame,
The gentle, never.
Stay, then, till Sorrow dies;
Then-hope and happy skies
Are thine forever!
Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes;
With everything that pretty bin,
My lady sweet, arise;
Arise, arise!
I Fear Thy Kisses, Gentle Maiden
BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden;
Thou needest not fear mine;
My spirit is too deeply laden
Ever to burden thine.
I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion;
Thou needest not fear mine;
Innocent is the heart's devotion
With which I worship thine.
BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory.
Odors, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken,
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art ogne
Love itself shall slumber on.
Stanzas for Music
BY LORD BYRON.
There be none of Beauty's daughters
With a magic like thee;
And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me;
When, as if its sound were causing
The charmed ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming;
And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chain o'er the deep;
Whose breast is gently heaving,
As an infant's asleep;
So the spirit bows before thee,
To listen and adore thee;
With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of Summer's ocean.
A Petition to Time
BY BRYAN WALLER PROCTER.
Touch us gently, Time!
Let us glide down thy stream
Gently, as we sometimes glide
Through a quiet dream!
Humble voyagers are we,
Husband, wife, and children three
(One is lost,-an angel, fled
To the azure overhead!)
Touch us gently, Time!
We've not proud nor soaring wings;
Our ambition, our content,
Lies in simple things.
Humble voyagers are we,
O'er Life's dim unsounded sea,
Seeking only some calm clime;
Touch us gently, gentle Time!
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