ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
by James Russel Lowell.
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 moulds 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.
Great captains, with their guns and drums,
Disturb our judgment for 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, grave, foreseeing man.
Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame
New birth of our new soil - the first American.
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