To make me own this hind of princes peer, This rail-splitter, a true-born king of men. My shallow judgment I have learned to rue, Noting how to occasion's height he rose; How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true, How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows. How humble yet how hopeful he could be; How in good fortune and in ill the same; Nor bitter in success nor boastful he, Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame. He went about his work, such work as few Ever had laid on head and heart and hand, As one who knows where there's a task to do, Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command; Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow, That God makes instruments to work His will, If but that will we can arrive to know, Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill. So he went forth to battle on the side That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's, As in his peasant boyhood he had plied His warfare with rude Nature's thwarting mights; The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil, The iron-bark that turns the lumberer's ax, The rapid that o'erbears the boatman's toil, The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks, The ambushed Indian and the prowling bear-- Such were the deeds that helped his youth to train: Rough culture, but such trees large fruit may bear, If but their stocks be of right girth and grain. So he grew up, a destined work to do, And lived to do it; four long-suffering years' Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through, And then he heard the hisses changed to cheers, The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise, And took both with the same unwavering mood; Till, as he came on light, from darkling days, And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood, A felon hand, between the goal and him, Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest, And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim, Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest! The words of mercy were upon his lips, Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen, When his vile murderer brought swift eclipse To thoughts of peace on earth, good will to men. The Old World and the New, from sea to sea, Utter one voice of sympathy and shame! Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high, Sad life, cut short, just as its triumph came. A deed accurst! Strokes have been struck before By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt If more of honor or disgrace they bore; But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out. Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife, Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly driven; And with the martyr's crown crownest a life, With much to praise, little to be forgiven. End of Project Gutenberg's Lincoln in Caricature, by Rufus Rockwell Wilson