In his freedom from passion and bitterness; in his acute sense of justice; in his courageous faith in the right, and his inextinguishable hatred of wrong; in his warm and heartfelt sympathy and mercy; in his coolness of judgment; in his unquestioned rectitude of intention--in a word, in his ability to lift himself for his country's sake above all mere partisanship, in all the marked traits of his character combined, he has had no parallel since Washington, and while our republic endures he will live with him in the grateful hearts of his grateful countrymen. _Schuyler Colfax._ ABRAHAM LINCOLN BY HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL Dead is the roll of the drums, And the distant thunders die, They fade in the far-off sky; And a lovely summer comes, Like the smile of Him on high. Lulled, the storm and the onset. Earth lies in a sunny swoon; Stiller splendor of noon, Softer glory of sunset, Milder starlight and moon! For the kindly Seasons love us; They smile over trench and clod (Where we left the bravest of us)-- There's a brighter green of the sod, And a holier calm above us In the blessed Blue of God. The roar and ravage were vain; And Nature, that never yields, Is busy with sun and rain At her old sweet work again On the lonely battle-fields. How the tall white daisies grow, Where the grim artillery rolled! (Was it only a moon ago? It seems a century old)-- And the bee hums in the clover, As the pleasant June comes on; Aye, the wars are all over,-- But our good Father is gone. There was tumbling of traitor fort, Flaming of traitor fleet-- Lighting of city and port, Clasping in square and street. There was thunder of mine and gun, Cheering by mast and tent,-- When--his dread work all done, And his high fame full won-- Died the Good President. In his quiet chair he sate, Pure of malice or guile, Stainless of fear or hate,-- And there played a pleasant smile On the rough and careworn face; For his heart was all the while On means of mercy and grace. The brave old Flag drooped o'er him, (A fold in the hard hand lay)-- He looked, perchance, on the play-- But the scene was a shadow before him, For his thoughts were far away. 'Twas but the morn (yon fearful Death-shade, gloomy and vast, Lifting slowly at last), His household heard him say, "'Tis long since I've been so cheerful, So light of heart as to-day." 'Twas dying, the long dread clang-- But, or ever the blessed ray Of peace could brighten to-day, Murder stood by the way-- Treason struck home his fang! One throb--and, without a pang, That pure soul passed away.