What is your mission now, Old Flag? What but to set all people free, To rid the world of misery, To guard the right, avenge the wrong, And gather in one joyful throng Beneath your folds in close embrace All burdened ones of every race, Old Flag. Right nobly do you lead the way, Old Flag. Your stars shine out for liberty, Your white stripes stand for purity, Your crimson claims that courage high For honor's sake to fight and die. Lead on against the alien shore! We'll follow you, e'en to Death's door, Old Flag! ABRAHAM LINCOLN R. H. Stoddard This man whose homely face you look upon, Was one of Nature's masterful, great men; Born with strong arms that unfought victories won, Direct of speech, and cunning with the pen, Chosen for large designs, he had the art Of winning with his humor, and he went Straight to his mark, which was the human heart; Wise, too, for what he could not break he bent. Upon his back a more than Atlas' load The burden of the Commonwealth was laid; He stooped, and rose up with it, though the road Shot suddenly downwards, not a whit dismayed. Hold, warriors, councillors, kings! All now give place To this dead Benefactor of the Race! ABRAHAM LINCOLN William Cullen Bryant This ode was written for the Funeral Services held in New York City. Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare, Gentle and merciful and just! Who in the fear of God, didst bear The sword of power, a nation's trust. In sorrow by thy bier we stand Amid the awe that husheth all, And speak the anguish of a land That shook with horror at thy fall. Thy task is done; the bonds are free; We bear thee to an honored grave, Whose proudest monument shall be The broken fetters of the slave. Pure was thy life; its bloody close Has placed thee with the Sons of Light, Among the noble host of those Who perished in the cause of Right. ABRAHAM LINCOLN Alice Cary INSCRIBED TO "PUNCH" No glittering chaplet brought from other lands! As in his life, this man, in death, is ours; His own loved prairies o'er his "gaunt, gnarled hands" Have fitly drawn their sheet of summer flowers! What need hath he now of a tardy crown, His name from mocking jest and sneer to save? When every ploughman turns his furrow down As soft as though it fell upon his grave. He was a man whose like the world again Shall never see, to vex with blame or praise; The landmarks that attest his bright, brief reign Are battles, not the pomps of gala days! The grandest leader of the grandest war That ever time in history gave a place; What were the tinsel flattery of a star To such a breast! or what a ribbon's grace!