We come not, then, to praise
That which transcends our praises, but to crave
The light of one great soul, kind as the sky,
Upon these later days,--
Not like the simpler time gone by,
But set with snares of sense and ease,
And crowded with poor phantom flatteries
That serve us, and enslave.
We come, forgetting for a while
Our million-peopled cities, pile on pile
Upsoaring starry-windowed in the night
To perilous Babel-height;
We come, forgetting all our new-found powers,
The magic of the mastery that is ours,
The shoes of swiftness we may lightly wear,
And that fresh-captived Ariel of the air,
All, all that makes Man’s face to shine
With pride of conquest, flushing him as wine,--
We come, forgetting all, a little while
To look in Lincoln’s eyes,
So loving-sad, so kindly-wise;
To stand, as judged, before his patient smile;
Until his large mould shames us, and we know
We are as children, yet have hope to grow,
Since this may be the stature of a man.