Abraham Lincoln - Poem by Alice Cary
No glittering chaplet brought from other lands!
As in his life, this man, in death, is ours;
His own loved prairies o'er his 'gaunt, gnarled hands,'
Have fitly drawn their sheet of summer flowers!
What need hath he now of a tardy crown,
His name from mocking jest and sneer to save
When every plowman turns his furrow down
As soft as though it fell upon his grave?
He was a man whose like the world again
Shall never see, to vex with blame or praise;
The landmarks that attest his bright, brief reign,
Are battles, not the pomps of gala days!
The grandest leader of the grandest war
That ever time in history gave a place,-
What were the tinsel flattery of a star
To such a breast! or what a ribbon's grace!
'Tis to th' man, and th' man's honest worth,
The Nation's loyalty in tears upsprings;
Through him the soil of labor shines henceforth,
High o'er the silken broideries of kings.
The mechanism of eternal forms-
The shifts that courtiers put their bodies through-
Were alien ways to him: his brawny arms
Had other work than posturing to do.
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