Abraham Lincoln By Tom Taylor You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier, You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace Broad for the self-complacent sneer His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face. His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair, His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, His lack of all we prize as debonair, Of power or will to shine, of art to please. You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh, Judging each step, as though the way were plain; Reckless, so it could point its paragraph Of chief's perplexity or people's pain. Beside this corps, that beats for winding sheet The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew, Between the mourners at his head and feet, Say, scurril-jester, is there room for you? Yes, he had lived to shame me from my sneer, To lame my pencil, and confute my pen-- To make me own this hind of princes peer, This rail-splitter a true-born king of men.... The Old World and the New, from sea to sea, Utter one voice of sympathy and shame! Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high, Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came. A deed accurst! Strokes have been struck before By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt If more of horror or disgrace they bore; But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out> Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife, Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven; And with the martyr's crown crownest a life With much to praise, little to be forgiven!
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