. The poets' Lincoln : tributes in verse to the martyred President. d and sung at thededicatory ceremonies on the 400th anniversary of thediscovery of America, October 21, 1892. Author ofValerie, and other poems, 1892; The Columbia Ode,1893; John Wellborn, Poet, A Memoir, 1896; ThePassing Show—Modern Plays in Verse, 1903, etc. NANCY HANKS PRAIRIE Child,Brief as dew,What winds of wonderNourished you? Rolling plain Of billowy green,Fair horizons, Blue, serene. Lofty skies The slow clouds climb,Where burning stars Beat out the time. THE POETS LINCOLN 27 These, and the dreams Of fathers bold,Baffl
. The poets' Lincoln : tributes in verse to the martyred President. d and sung at thededicatory ceremonies on the 400th anniversary of thediscovery of America, October 21, 1892. Author ofValerie, and other poems, 1892; The Columbia Ode,1893; John Wellborn, Poet, A Memoir, 1896; ThePassing Show—Modern Plays in Verse, 1903, etc. NANCY HANKS PRAIRIE Child,Brief as dew,What winds of wonderNourished you? Rolling plain Of billowy green,Fair horizons, Blue, serene. Lofty skies The slow clouds climb,Where burning stars Beat out the time. THE POETS LINCOLN 27 These, and the dreams Of fathers bold,Baffled longings Hopes untold. Gave to you A heart of fire,Love like waters, Brave desire. Ah, when youths rapture Went out in pain,And all seemed over, Was all in vain? O soul obscure, Whose wings life bound,And soft death folded Under the ground. Wilding lady, Still and true,Who gave us Lincoln And never knew: To you at last Our praise, our tears,Love and a song Through the nations years. Mother of Lincoln,Our tears, our praise; A battle-flag And the victors bays!. THE RAIL SPLITTERFrom the Footprints of Abraham Lincoln THE POETS LINCOLN 29 LINCOLN THE LABORER From an Horaiian Ode by Richard Henry Stoddard A LABORING man with horny hands,Who swung the axe, who tilled the lands,Who shrank from nothing new,But did as poor men do. One of the people. Born to beTheir 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, still—Who, since his work was good,Would do it as he could. No hero, this, of Roman mold—Nor like our stately sires of 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.
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