John Nichol, born at Montrose, Forfarshire, Scotland, September 8, 1833. He was a professor of English Literature at the University of Glasgow (1861-1889), and did much to make American books popular in England. His numerous publications include: _Leaves_ (1854), verse; _Tables of European History, 200-1876 A.D._ (1876); fourth edition (1888); _Byron in English Men of Letters series_; _American Literature, 1520-1880_ (1882). He was an ardent advocate of the Northern cause during the Civil War, and visited the United States at the close of the conflict. He died at London, England, October 11, 1894. LINCOLN, 1865 An end at last! The echoes of the war-- The weary war beyond the Western waves-- Die in the distance. Freedom's rising star Beacons above a hundred thousand graves; The graves of heroes who have won the fight, Who in the storming of the stubborn town Have rung the marriage peal of might and right, And scaled the cliffs and cast the dragon down. Pæans of armies thrill across the sea, Till Europe answers--"Let the struggle cease. The bloody page is turned; the next may be For ways of pleasantness and paths of peace!" A golden morn--a dawn of better things-- The olive-branch--clasping of hands again-- A noble lesson read to conquered kings-- A sky that tempests had not scoured in vain. This from America we hoped and him Who ruled her "in the spirit of his creed." Does the hope last when all our eyes are dim, As history records her darkest deed? The pilot of his people through the strife, With his strong purpose turning scorn to praise, E'en at the close of battle reft of life And fair inheritance of quiet days. Defeat and triumph found him calm and just, He showed how clemency should temper power, And, dying, left to future times in trust The memory of his brief victorious hour. O'ermastered by the irony of fate, The last and greatest martyr of his cause; Slain like Achilles at the Scæan gate, He saw the end, and fixed "the purer laws." May these endure and, as his work, attest The glory of his honest heart and hand-- The simplest, and the bravest, and the best-- The Moses and the Cromwell of his land. Too late the pioneers of modern spite, Awe-stricken by the universal gloom, See his name lustrous in Death's sable night, And offer tardy tribute at his tomb.