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Copyright 1911
The Bobbs-Merrill Company









©CI.A2973 o ■


The editor of this Anthology desires to express his sin-
cere thanks to many publishers and authors for their
courtesy in granting permission to use selections from
their various volumes. His thanks are due the following
publishers : The Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, for
the use of poems by Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Edmund
Clarence Stedman, Bayard Taylor, Richard Watson Gil-
der, James Russell Lowell, Alice Cary, Phcebe Cary,
Christopher Pearce Cranch, Lucy Larcom, Oliver Wen-
dell" Holmes, John Greenleaf Whittier, John Townsend
Trowbridge, Edna Dean Proctor, Julia Ward Howe, Rose
Terry Cooke, Edward Rowland Sill, Jones Very, Wendell
Phillips Garrison, Maurice Thompson, John Vance Che-
ney, Nora Perry, Henry Howard Brownell ; The Mac-
millan company, New York, the poem by Percy Mac-
kaye; D. Appleton and Company, New York, for the
use of poems by William Cullen Bryant ; The Saalfield
Publishing Company, Akron, Ohio, poem by Phcebe A.
Hanaford ; Silver Burdett and Company, New York, poem
by Samuel Francis Smith ; Longmans, Green and Com-
pany, New York, poems by John James Piatt ; The J. B.
Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, poem by George
Henry Boker; G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York, poems
from Abraham Lincoln, by Lyman Whitney Allen, and
from Survivals, by Lewis V. Randolph ; The Funk and
Wagnalls Company, New York, poem by Richard Realf ;
David McKay, Philadelphia, poems by Walt Whitman ;
Charles Scribner's Sons, New York, poems by Richard


Henry Stoddard; The New England Publishing Com-
pany, Boston, poem by Hezekiah Butterworth ; The Loth-
rop, Lee and Shepard Company, Boston, poem by Robert
Henry Newell; Thomas Y. Crowell and Company, New
York, poem by Frank B. Sanborn; Little, Brown and
Company, Boston, poem by Edith Colby Banfield ; Harper
and Brothers, New York, poem by Herman Melville,
from his Battle Pieces and Aspects of the War, and poems
from The Poetical Works of Charles Graham Halpine.

Acknowledgments are due the following periodicals
and magazines for permission to include poems that ap-
peared originally in their pages: The American Maga-
zine, The Independent, Youth's Companion, The Atlantic
Monthly, Success Magazine, Hampton's Magazine and
The Century.

Thanks are also due the American Press Association,
for permission to use An Appreciation of Lincoln, by
Robertus Love.

The authors named below have graciously added their
consent to that of their publishers : John E. Barrett, Vir-
ginia Frazer Boyle, Edna Dean Proctor, Robertus Love,
Julia Ward Howe, Phoebe A. Hanaford, Joel Benton,
Eugene J. Hall, Lyman Whitney Allen, Robert Mackay,
Horace Spencer Fiske, James Nicoll Johnston, William
Henry Venable, Percy Mackaye, John Townsend Trow-
bridge, Florence Evelyn Pratt, Margaret E. Sangster,
Edwin Markham, James Oppenheim, Frank B. Sanborn,
John Vance Cheney, Samuel E. Kiser, William Wilber-
force Newton, the Reverend Doctor P. C. Croll, Wilbur
D. Nesbit, the Reverend Levi Lewis Hager, Lewis V. F.


Randolph, Doctor S. Weir Mitchell, Benjamin S. Parker,
General John James Piatt, Nathan Haskell Dole, and
Laura Redden Searing; while Mr. and Mrs. P. McK.
Garrison have given permission to include the poem by
their father, Wendell Phillips Garrison.

By special arrangement with Edward William Thom-
son we include in the volume his poems entitled: We
Talked of Lincoln, When Lincoln Died, and Father Abra-
ham Lincoln, from his volume When Lincoln Died and
other Poems, published by the Houghton Mifflin Com-
pany, Boston.

A. D. W.


The poetic faculty is the one divine gift which has
no limitations in time or space. It sings in every note
of love, from passion to sacrifice. It tunes its lyre to
the primrose pitch; and its music is heard in the di-
apason of the spheres. It records with equal fervor
the glories of war and the beauties of peace, the white
man's burden and the black man's care, the thrill of
liberty and the sullen silence of the slave, the peace of
home and the pleasures of the harem, the pomp of
power and the pride of place. It weaves Jacob's coat
of poverty and Solomon's royal robe. It paints with
equal touch the passion of a Madonna and a Salome.
It carries to Paradise the warrior's cry, the lover's sigh
and the penitential tear. With love and patriotism it
forms the human trinity. It ascends to heaven, and,
Lucifer-like, drops swiftly to hell again. It has flat-
tered Nero on his throne and consoled Milton in his
blindness. It has cajoled, caressed, rebuked, uplifted,
dismayed mankind. It dispenses the honey of Hymet-
tus and the poison of asps. It has recorded the agony
of Mary and the anguish of Cleopatra. It is good and
evil, bitterness and sweetness, light and darkness, help
and hindrance. From its mouth have come both bless-
ings and cursings. Happy the man who is worthy of
its glorifications.

America stands for something or for nothing. I am
one of those who believe it stands for something. It
is the one land where the mystery of manhood may
be fully revealed ; where, at the last, not race nor creed
nor station, but character shall win and purposes shall


be the weights put in the balances of judgment. It is
the land of hope and not despair. If I were asked
to tell why thus I think, I should say that what has
been may be. If I were called upon to name one man
who proved my statement I should answer, Abraham
Lincoln. And with the name all doubt would vanish
and the babel of discordant views become dumb. Be-
fore you would arise his tall, majestic figure, sharply
silhouetted against a nineteenth century sky, and you
would see passing before you the years wherein he
walked from the Nation's poverty to the Nation's Pan-
theon. He proved our country's right to be, and our
power to be right. Who walks in his steps in public or
in private life will always be enrolled in the Army of
Constitutional Liberty. His is the one life in our his-
tory we can not too often review nor too sedulously
emulate. We may forget all others, but while we re-
member him in the true sense of remembrance we shall
be safe. Too much can not be said or sung of him.
He can not too often be recalled to the memory of this
people. The marble and the bronze are enriched by his
homely face. The pigment takes on a richer color as it
traces his counterfeit presentment. And when the poet
sweeps his strings in music to the greatness and the
goodness of this typical American, his chords approach
the divine — for it was given Lincoln to die for a

Anthologies are not new. But to gather the roses
which have bloomed from the life of our greatest
man and from his memory, and to let the American
people behold their beauty and enjoy their perfume is a
distinct feature in American literature. May this vol-


lime be read ; and as we read it may we vow that this
government "of the people, by the people, for the peo-
ple, shall not perish from the earth."


April nth, 191 1.


Walt Whitman

O Captain ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every wrack, the prize we

sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and

daring ;

But O heart ! heart ! heart !

O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead !

O Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear the bells ;
Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you the bugle

For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths — for you the

shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces


Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head !
It is some dream that on the deck

You've fallen cold and dead.


My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still ;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor

The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed

and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object


Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells !

But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies

Fallen cold and dead.


William Cullen Bryant

Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare,
Gentle and merciful and just !

Who, in the fear of God didst bear
The sword of power, a nation's trust.

In sorrow by thy bier we stand,
Amid the awe that hushes all,

And speak the anguish of a land
That shook with horror at thy fall.

Thy task is done ; the bond are free ;

We bear thee to an honored grave,
Whose proudest monument shall be

The broken fetters of a slave.

Pure was thy life ; its bloody close

Hath placed thee with the sons of light,

Among the noblest host of those
Who perished in the cause of right.


William Wilberforce Newton


Saw you in his boyhood days

O'er Kentucky's prairies ;
Bending to the settler's ways
Yon poor youth whom now we praise,—

Romance like the fairies ?
Hero ! Hero ! Sent from God !

Leader of his people.


Saw you in the days of youth

By the candle's flaring :
Lincoln searching for the truth,
Splitting rails to gain, forsooth,

Knowledge for the daring?
Hero ! Hero ! Sent from God !

Leader of his people.


Saw you in his manhood's prime

Like a star resplendent :
Him we praise in measured rhyme
Waiting for the coming time

With a faith transcendent?
Hero ! Hero ! Sent from God !

Leader of his people.


Saw you in the hour of strife

When fierce war was raging;
Him who gave the slaves a life



Full and rich with freedom rife,

All his powers engaging?
Hero ! Hero ! Sent from God !

Leader of his people.


Saw you when the war was done

(Such is Lincoln's story)
Him whose strength the strife had won
Sinking like the setting sun

Crowned with human glory?
Hero ! Hero ! Sent from God !

Leader of his people.


Saw you in our country's roll
Midst her saints and sages :

Lincoln's name upon the scroll —

Standing at the topmost goal
On the nation's pages?

Hero ! Hero ! Sent from God !
Leader of his people.


Hero ! Yes ! We know thy fame ;

It will live for ever!
Thou to us art still the same ;
Great the glory of thy name,

Great thy strong endeavor!
Hero ! Hero ! Sent from God !

Leader of his people.


James Russell Lowell

Life may be given in many ways,

And loyalty to truth be sealed

As bravely in the closet as the field,

So bountiful is Fate;

But then to stand beside her,

When craven churls deride her,

To front a lie in arms and not to yield,

This shows, methinks, God's plan

And measure of a stalwart man,

Limbed like the old heroic breeds,

Who stands self-poised on manhood's solid earth,

Not forced to frame excuses for his birth,

Fed from within, with all the strength he needs.

Such was he, our martyr chief,

Whom late the nation he had led

With ashes on her head,

Wept with the passion of an angry grief ;

Forgive me if from present things I turn

To speak what in my heart will beat and burn,

And hang my wreath on this world-honored urn.

Nature, they say, doth dote,

And can not make a man

Save on some worn-out plan,

Repeating us by rote ;

For him her old world molds aside she threw,

And, choosing sweet clay from the breast

Of the unexhausted West,

With stuff untainted, shaped a hero new,

Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true.


How beautiful to see

Once more a shepherd of mankind, indeed,

Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead ;

One whose meek flock the people joyed to be,

Not lured by any cheat of birth,

But by his clean-grained human worth,

And brave old wisdom of sincerity !

They know that outward grace is dust ;

They could not choose but trust

In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering, skill,

And supple-tempered will

That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust.

His was no lonely mountain peak of mind,

Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars,

A sea mark now, now lost in vapors blind ;

Broad prairie rather, genial, level lined,

Fruitful and friendly for all human kind,

Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of loftiest stars.


Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still,

Ere any names of serf or peer

Could Nature's equal scheme deface

And thwart her genial will ;

Here was a type of the true elder race,

And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face.

I praise him not ; it were too late ;

And some innative weakness there must be

In him who condescends to victory

Such as the present gives and can not wait,

Safe in himself as in a fate.

So always firmly he :

He knew to bide his time,

And can his fame abide,

Still patient in his faith sublime,

Till the wise years decide.


Great captains with their guns and drums,

Disturb our judgment of the hour,

But at last Silence comes ;

These all are gone, and, standing like a tower,

Our children shall behold his fame,

The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man,

Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame,

New birth of our new soil, the first American.


James Whitcomb Riley

A peaceful life; — just toil and rest —

All his desire ; —
To read the books he liked the best

Beside the cabin fire —
God's word and man's ; — to peer sometimes

Above the page, in smouldering gleams,
And catch, like far heroic rhymes,

The onmarch of his dreams.

A peaceful life; — to hear the low

Of pastured herds,
Or woodman's axe that, blow on blow,

Fell sweet as rhythmic words.
And yet there stirred within his breast

A fateful pulse that, like a roll
Of drums, made high above his rest

A tumult in his soul.

A peaceful life! . . . They haled him even

As One was haled
Whose open palms were nailed toward Heaven

When prayers nor aught availed.



And, lo, he paid the selfsame price
To lull a nation's awful strife

And will us, through the sacrifice
Of self, his peaceful life.


Julia Ward Howe

Through the dim pageant of the years
A wondrous tracery appears ;
A cabin of the Western wild
Shelters to sleep a newborn child.

Nor nurse, nor parent dear can know
The way those infant feet must go;
And yet a nation's help and hope
Are sealed within that horoscope.

Beyond is toil for daily bread
And thought, to noble issues led,
And courage arming for the morn
For whose behest this man was born.

A man of homely, rustic ways,
Yet he achieves the forum's praise,
And soon earth's highest meed has won,
The seat and sway of Washington.

No throne of honors and delights ;
Distrustful days and sleepless nights,
To struggle, suffer, and aspire,
Like Israel, led by cloud and fire.



A treacherous shot, a sob of rest,
A martyr's palm upon his breast,
A welcome from the glorious seat
Where blameless souls of heroes meet.

And thrilling through unmeasured days,
A song of gratitude and praise ;
A cry that all the earth shall heed,
To God, who gave him for our need.


Robcrtus Love

Somewhar down thar round Hodgenville, Kaintucky,

Or tharabouts, a hundred year ago,
Was born a boy ye wouldn' thought was lucky ;

Looked like he never wouldn' have a show.

But ... I don' know.
That boy was started middlin' well, I'm thinkin'.
His name ? W'y, it was Abraham — Abe Lincoln.

Pore whites his folks was? Yes, as pore as any.

Them pioneers, they wa'n't no plutocrats ;
Belonged right down among the humble many,

And no more property than dogs or cats.

But . . . maybe that's
As good a way as any for a startin'.
Abe Lincoln, he riz middlin' high, for sartin !

Somehow I've always had a sort o' sneakin'

Idee that peddygrees is purty much
Like monkeys' tails— so long they're apt to weaken

The yap that drags 'em round. No use for such !

But . . . beats the Dutch
How now and then a lad like little Aby
Grows up a president — or guvnor, maybe.



Abe Lincoln never had no reg'lar schoolin' ;

He never quarterbacked nor pulled stroke oar,
Nor never spent his time and money foolin'

With buried langwidges and ancient lore.

But . . . Abe l'arned more
To set him forrerd in the human film'
Than all the college fellers' kit and bilin'.

Abe Lincoln never did git hifalutin' —
Not even thar in Washin'ton, D. C.

He jist kep' common, humble, ord'n'ry, suitin'
His backwoods corn patch raisin' to a T.
But . . . jiminygee!

W'y, Abe was any statesman's peer and ekul

And wise as Solomon or old Ezekul.

I reckon, I'm a bit old-fashioned, maybe,
But when I want a pattern for a man

I'm middlin' shore to measure Father Aby
And cut to fit his homely human plan.
And long's I can

I'm hootin' loud and rootin' proud, by hucky,

For that old boy from Hodgenville, Kaintucky.


Samuel E. Riser

New heroes rise above the toiling throng,
And daily come resplendent into view,
And pass again, remembered by a few,

To leave one form in bold relief and strong

That higher looms as ages march along ;
One name that lingers in the memory, too,

And singers through all time shall raise the sonj
And keep it swelling loud and ringing true !


Lo, where the feet of Lincoln passed, the earth
Is sacred, where he knelt we set a shrine !

Oh, to have pressed his hand ! That had sufficed

To make my children wonder at my worth —
Yet, let them glory, since their land and mine

Hath reared the greatest martyr after Christ !


Virginia Frazer Boyle

(Written for the Centennial Celebration, February 12th, 1909, by
Invitation of the Philadelphia Brigade Association— Penna.)

"The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield
and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone, all over
this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again
touched, as surely they will be, by the angels of our better na-
ture." — Abraham Lincoln.

No trumpet blared the word that he was born,
Nor lightning flashed its symbols on the day ;

And only Poverty and Fate pressed on,

To serve as handmaids where he lowly lay.

No royal trappings fell to his rude part, —

A simple hut and labor were its goal ;
But Fate, stern-eyed, had held him to her heart,

And left a greatness on his rugged soul.

And up from earth and toil, he slowly won, —
Pressed by a bitterness he proudly spurned,

Till by grim courage, born from sun to sun,
He turned defeat, as victory is turned.

Sired deep in destiny, he backward threw
The old heredities that men have known ;

And round his gaunt and homely form he drew

The fierce white light that greatness makes its own.



Sad-eyed and wan, yet strong to do the right, —
To clear the truth, as God gave him to see,

He held a raging country by his might,
Before the iron hour of destiny.

Nor flame nor sword nor silver tongues availed
To turn his passion from its steady flow ;

The compact of the Fathers had not failed, —
He would not let an angered people go ! —

He stood in calm, while shaking chaos swept
The Union, — North and South, in seething flood.

And on his knees the griefs of both he wept, —
But kept unbroke, the compact sealed in blood.

He saw the sullen smoke of battle lift,

That closed the carnage of the war of wars ;

And on the height, hailed through the azure rift
The flag whose folds have never dipped its stars.

But amnesty was in the conquering hand

That yearned across the silent cannon's mouth ; —

When with the knell that startled all the land,
There died the last hope of the bleeding South ! —

With gentle tread, time wears upon the past.

The field of blood is dried, the waste is tilled ;
And by the light of peace around them cast,

Men read the earnest prophecy, fulfilled.

There is no woe in this broad land to-day,
Held in the bonds of faith, forever one;

The golden glow of progress leads the way,

Where once the guns of wrath have darkly shone.



Here rest their arms, while deathless glory tells
The watch of time for all the true and brave,-

And here the grandeur of a Nation dwells, —
The Union, that a Lincoln died to save ! —


James T. McKay

And so they buried Lincoln? Strange and vain.

Has any creature thought of Lincoln hid

In any vault 'neath any coffin lid,
In all the years since that wild spring of pain?
'Tis false — he never in the grave hath lain.

You could not bury him although you slid

Upon his clay the Cheops Pyramid,
Or heaped it with the Rocky Mountain chain.
They slew themselves ; — they but set Lincoln free.

In all the earth his great heart beats as strong,
Shall beat while pulses throb to chivalry,

And burn with hate of tyranny and wrong.
Whoever will may find him, anywhere
Save in the tomb. Not there — he is not there.


Edwin Markham

When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour

Greatening and darkening as it hurried on,

She left the Heaven of Heroes and came down

To make a man to meet the mortal need.

She took the tried clay of the common road —

Clay warm yet with the ancient heat of Earth,



Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy ;
Tempered the heap with thrill of human tears ;
Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff.
Into the shape she breathed a flame to light
That tender, tragic, ever-changing face.
Here was a man to hold against the world,
A man to match the mountains and the sea.

The color of the ground was in him, the red earth;

The smack and tang of elemental things :

The rectitude and patience of the cliff ;

The good- will of the rain that loves all leaves;

The friendly welcome of the wayside well ;

The courage of the bird that dares the sea ;

The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn;

The mercy of the snow that hides all scars;

The secrecy of streams that make their way

Beneath the mountain to the rifted rock;

The undelaying justice of the light

That gives as freely to the shrinking flower

As to the great oak flaring to the wind —

To the grave's low hill as to the Matterhorn

That shoulders out the sky.

Sprung from the West,
The strength of virgin forests braced his mind,
The hush of spacious prairies stilled his soul.
Up from log cabin to the Capitol,
One fire was on his spirit, one resolve —
To send the keen ax to the root of wrong,
Clearing a free way for the feet of God.
And evermore he burned to do his deed
With the fine stroke and gesture of a king :
He built the rail-pile as he built the State,
Pouring his splendid strength through every blow,
The conscience of him testing every stroke,
To make his deed the measure of a man.



So came the Captain with the thinking heart ;
And when the judgment thunders split the house,
Wrenching the rafters from their ancient rest,
He held the ridgepole up, and spiked again
The rafters of the Home. He held his place —
Held the long purpose like a growing tree —
Held on through blame and faltered not at praise,
And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down
As when a lordly cedar, green with boughs,
Goes down with a great shout upon the hills,
And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.


Emily J. Bugbee

There's a burden of grief on the breezes of spring,
And a song of regret from the bird on its wing ;
There's a pall on the sunshine and over the flowers,
And a shadow of graves on these spirits of ours ;
For a star hath gone out from the night of our sky,
On whose brightness we gazed as the war cloud rolled

So tranquil and steady and clear were its beams,
That they fell like a vision of peace on our dreams.

, A heart that we knew had been true to our weal,
And a hand that was steadily guiding the wheel ;
A name never tarnished by falsehood or wrong,
That had dwelt in our hearts like a soul-stirring song;

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