Cool should he be, of balanced powers,
The ruler of a race like ours,

Impatient, headstrong, wild,
The Man to guide the Child.

And this he was, who most unfit
(So hard the sense of God to hit,)
Did seem to fill his place;
With such a homely face,

Such rustic manners, speech uncouth,
(That somehow blundered out the truth,)
Untried, untrained to bear
The more than kingly care.

Ah! And his genius put to scorn
The proudest in the purple born,

Whose wisdom never grew
To what, untaught, he knew,

The People, of whom he was one:
No gentleman, like Washington,

(Whose bones, methinks, make room,
To have him in their tomb !)

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, element, 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!

Go, darkly borne, from State to State,
Whose loyal, sorrowing cities wait
To honor all they can
The dust of that good man.
Go, grandly borne, with such a train
As greatest kings might die to gain.

ADSUM

DECEMBER 23-24, 1863

THE Angel came by night
(Such angels still come down),
And like a winter cloud

Passed over London town;
Along its lonesome streets,
Where Want had ceased to weep,
Until it reached a house

Where a great man lay asleep;
The man of all his time

Who knew the most of men,
The soundest head and heart,
The sharpest, kindest pen.
It paused beside his bed,

And whispered in his ear;
He never turned his head,

But answered, "I am here."

Into the night they went.

At morning, side by side, They gained the sacred Place Where the greatest Dead abide. Where grand old Homer sits In godlike state benign; Where broods in endless thought The awful Florentine; Where sweet Cervantes walks, A smile on his grave face; Where gossips quaint Montaigne, The wisest of his race; Where Goethe looks through all With that calm eye of his; 'Where-little seen but Light – The only Shakespeare is ! When the new Spirit came,

They asked him, drawing near, "Art thou become like us?" He answered, "I am here."

AN OLD SONG REVERSED

"THERE are gains for all our losses." So I said when I was young.

If I sang that song again,
T would not be with that refrain,
Which but suits an idle tongue.

Youth has gone, and hope gone with it,
Gone the strong desire for fame.
Laurels are not for the old.
Take them, lads. Give Senex gold.
What's an everlasting name?

When my life was in its summer

One fair woman liked my looks: Now that Time has driven his plough In deep furrows on my brow,

I'm no more in her good books.

"There are gains for all our losses? Grave beside the wintry sea, Where my child is, and my heart, For they would not live apart,

What has been your gain to me?

No, the words I sang were idle,
And will ever so remain:
Death, and Age, and vanished Youth
All declare this bitter truth,
There's a loss for every gain!

MORS ET VITA

"UNDER the roots of the roses,

Down in the dark, rich mould, The dust of my dear one reposes Like a spark which night incloses

When the ashes of day are cold."

"Under the awful wings

Which brood over land and sea,

And whose shadows nor lift nor flee, – This is the order of things,

And hath been from of old:

First production,

And last destruction; So the pendulum swings,

..

While cradles are rocked and bells are tolled."

"Not under the roots of the roses,

But under the luminous wings
Of the King of kings

The soul of my love reposes,

With the light of morn in her eyes, Where the Vision of Life discloses Life that sleeps not nor dies."

"Under or over the skies
What is it that never dies?
Spirit-if such there be-

Whom no one hath seen nor heard,
We do not acknowledge thee;

For, spoken or written word,
Thou art but a dream, a breath;
Certain is nothing but Death !"

THE FLIGHT OF THE ARROW

THE life of man

Is an arrow's flight,
Out of darkness
Into light,
And out of light

Into darkness again;
Perhaps to pleasure,
Perhaps to pain!

There must be Something,
Above, or below;
Somewhere unseen

A mighty Bow,
A Hand that tires not,
A sleepless Eye
That sees the arrows
Fly, and fly;
One who knows
Why we live

and die.