. The poets' Lincoln : tributes in verse to the martyred President. ment purchased it for one hundred thousanddollars, and it is now used as a branch of the Recordand Pension Division of the War Department. Presi-dent Lincoln was shot by J. Wilkes Booth at P. M. on the evening of April 14, 1865, whileseated in his private box in the theatre. 138 THE POETS LINCOLN 139 SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS! By Robert Leighton SIC semper tyrannis! the assassin cried,As Lincoln fell. O villain! who than heMore lived to set both slave and tyrant free?Or so enrapt with plans of freedom died,That even thy
. The poets' Lincoln : tributes in verse to the martyred President. ment purchased it for one hundred thousanddollars, and it is now used as a branch of the Recordand Pension Division of the War Department. Presi-dent Lincoln was shot by J. Wilkes Booth at P. M. on the evening of April 14, 1865, whileseated in his private box in the theatre. 138 THE POETS LINCOLN 139 SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS! By Robert Leighton SIC semper tyrannis! the assassin cried,As Lincoln fell. O villain! who than heMore lived to set both slave and tyrant free?Or so enrapt with plans of freedom died,That even thy treacherous deed shall glance asideAnd do the dead mans will by land and sea;Win bloodless battles, and make that to beWhich to his living mandate was denied!Peace to that gentle heart! The peace he sought For all mankind, nor for it dies in to the uncrowned king, who, toiling, brought His bleeding country through that dreadful reign;Who, living, earned a worlds revering thought,And, dying, leaves his name without a stain. Liverpool, England,May 5, 1865. ABRAHAM LINCOLN Foully assassinated, April 14, 1S65 TOM TAYLOR wrote the following poem, whichappeared in the London Punch, May 6, 1865. Theengraving is a facsimile of the one published inthe paper at the head of the poem. 140 THE POETS LINCOLN 141 ABRAHAM LINCOLN, FOULLYASSASSINATED YOU lay a wreath on murdered Lincolns bier,You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace,Broad for self-complacent British sneer,His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face, His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair,His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, His lack of all we prize as debonair, Of power or will to shine, of art to please, You, whose smart pen backed up the pencils laugh,Judging each step, as though the way were plain:Reckless, so it could point its paragraph,Of chiefs perplexity, or peoples pain. Beside this corpse, that bears for winding sheetThe Stars and Stripes, he lived to rear anew, Between the mourner
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