_You_ lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier! _You_, who with mocking pencil wont to trace, Broad for the 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 pencil's laugh, Judging each step, as though the way were plain; Reckless, so it could point its paragraph, Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain! Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet The stars and stripes he lived to rear anew, Between the mourners at his head and feet, Say, scurril-jester, is there room for _you_? Yes, he had lived to shame me from my sneer-- To lame my pencil, and confute my pen-- To make me own this hind of princes peer, This rail-splitter a true-born king of men. My shallow judgment I had 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 turn's the lumberer's axe, 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 needs 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 change 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,