A laboring man, with horny hands,
Who swung the axe, who tilled his lands,
Who shrank from nothing new,
But did as poor men do.
One of the People! born to be
Their curious epitome;
To share yet rise above
Their shifting hate and love.
Common his mind (it seemed so then),
His thoughts the thoughts of other men:
Plain were his words, and poor,
But now they will endure!
No hasty fool, of stubborn will,
But prudent, cautious, pliant still;
Who since his work was good
Would do it as he could.
Doubting, was not ashamed to doubt,
And, lacking prescience, went without:
Often appeared to halt,
And was, of course, at fault;
Heard all opinions, nothing loath,
And, loving both sides, angered both:
Was—not like Justice, blind,
But watchful, clement, kind.
No hero this of Roman mould,
Nor like our stately sires of old:
Perhaps he was not great,
But he preserved the State!
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!