 | Poems by John Howard Bryant |  |
221
AT THE TOMB OF LINCOLN.
Of all earth's great and good, the peer
Was he whose form lies mouldering here;
His love of mercy, truth and right,
Clothed him with a celestial light.
Was he whose form lies mouldering here;
His love of mercy, truth and right,
Clothed him with a celestial light.
The people loved him: to no one,
Not even to matchless Washington,
Their warm and earnest love outwent,
With such a strong and deep intent.
Not even to matchless Washington,
Their warm and earnest love outwent,
With such a strong and deep intent.
For he was of them: from the door
Of the low cabin of the poor,
He climed to greatness, yet did not
Forget nor scorn the humbler lot.
Of the low cabin of the poor,
He climed to greatness, yet did not
Forget nor scorn the humbler lot.
And when his life blood came to flow,
Shed by the coward murderer's blow,
A pang of anguish, like a dart,
Went through the land from heart to heart.
Shed by the coward murderer's blow,
A pang of anguish, like a dart,
Went through the land from heart to heart.
222
This pile, that now so grandly stands,
Was reared by countless loving hands,
From age to age to carry down
The burden of a great renown.
Was reared by countless loving hands,
From age to age to carry down
The burden of a great renown.
Yet when this tomb has fallen to dust,
Its bronze dissolved by frost and rust,
Thy name, O, Lincoln, still shall be
Revered and loved from sea to sea.
Its bronze dissolved by frost and rust,
Thy name, O, Lincoln, still shall be
Revered and loved from sea to sea.
| Poems by John Howard Bryant | |