And the Devil said to Simon Legree: “I like your style, so wicked and free. Come sit and share my throne with me, And let us bark and revel.” And there they sit and gnash their teeth, And each one wears a hop-vine wreath. They are matching pennies and shooting craps, They are playing poker and taking naps. And old Legree is fat and fine: He eats the fire, he drinks the wine— Blood and burning turpentine— _Down, down with the Devil; Down, down with the Devil; Down, down with the Devil._ ABRAHAM LINCOLN WALKS AT MIDNIGHT[36][37] (_In Springfield, Illinois_) It is portentous, and a thing of state That here at midnight, in our little town A mourning figure walks, and will not rest, Near the old court-house pacing up and down, Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards He lingers where his children used to play, Or through the market, on the well-worn stones He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away. A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black, A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl Make him the quaint great figure that men love, The prairie-lawyer, master of us all. He cannot sleep upon his hillside now. He is among us;—as in times before! And we who toss and lie awake for long, Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door. His head is bowed. He thinks of men and kings. Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep? Too many peasants fight, they know not why; Too many homesteads in black terror weep. The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart. He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main. He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now The bitterness, the folly and the pain. He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn Shall come;—the shining hope of Europe free: A league of sober folk, the Workers’ Earth, Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea. It breaks his heart that kings must murder still, That all his hours of travail here for men Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace That he may sleep upon his hill again? _Edwin Meade Robinson_ Edwin Meade Robinson (no relation to Edwin Arlington Robinson) was born November 1, 1879, at Lima, Indiana. He engaged in newspaper work when he was scarcely out of his ’teens, joining the staff of the Indianapolis _Sentinel_ in 1901. He began writing a daily poem in 1904 and, for years, has conducted a column of prose and verse in the Cleveland _Plain Dealer_.