C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
The Hand of Lincoln
By Edmund Clarence Stedman (1833–1908)
L
That bore a nation in its hold;
From this mute witness understand
What Lincoln was,—how large of mold;
And deepest sunk the plowman’s share,
And pushed the laden raft astream,
Of fate before him unaware.
The axe,—since thus would Freedom train
Her son,—and made the forest ring,
And drove the wedge, and toiled amain.
A conscious leader’s will obeyed,
And when men sought his word and look,
With steadfast might the gathering swayed.
Nor minstrel’s, laid across a lute;
A chief’s, uplifted to the Lord
When all the kings of earth were mute!
The fingers that on greatness clutch;
Yet, lo! the marks their lines along
Of one who strove and suffered much.
I trace the varying chart of years;
I know the troubled heart, the strain,
The weight of Atlas—and the tears.
That palm erewhile was wont to press;
And now ’tis furrowed deep, and now
Made smooth with hope and tenderness.
This molded outline plays about;
A pitying flame, beyond our trace,
Breathes like a spirit, in and out,—
Round one who, longer to endure,
Called mirth to ease his ceaseless dole,
Yet kept his nobler purpose sure.
Built up from yon large hand, appears;
A type that Nature wills to plan
But once in all a people’s years.
To tell of such a one as he,
Since through its living semblance passed
The thought that bade a race be free!