II
We come not, then, to praise
That which transcends our praises, but to crave
The light of one great soul, kind as the sky,
Upon these later days,—
Not like the simpler time gone by,
But set with snares of sense and ease,
And crowded with poor phantom flatteries
That serve us, and enslave.
We come, forgetting for a while
Our million-peopled cities, pile on pile
Upsoaring starry-windowed in the night
To perilous Babel-height;
We come, forgetting all our new-found powers,
The magic of the mastery that is ours,
The shoes of swiftness we may lightly wear,
And that fresh-captived Ariel of the air,
All, all that makes Man’s face to shine
With pride of conquest, flushing him as wine,—
We come, forgetting all, a little while
To look in Lincoln’s eyes,
So loving-sad, so kindly-wise;
To stand, as judged, before his patient smile;
Until his large mould shames us, and we know
We are as children, yet have hope to grow,
Since this may be the stature of a man.