ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
Song, legend, history, I scan in vain;
Outside of Holy Writ, no shape appears
So godlike as thy homely form; the spheres
Darken and die, thy glory shall not wane.
Monarchs have sat self-crowned upon the Seine
And on the Tiber; nations sick with fears
Have builded altars to them, drenched with tears
And smoking with a hecatomb of slain.
O Christ of Freedom, no high altars fume
For thee, but freely flow the tears and blood,
The pure sweet blood of thy own martyrdom,
And tears of mingled grief and gratitude
From the dark millions by thy pen set free,
Led from their long Gethsemane by thee.