High-browed, rugged, and swarthy;
A picture of pain and care;
A lawyer sat with his greatest brief,
High in his office chair.
His Country was to him client!
Futurity his ward!
And he must plead 'fore Fate's high court,
With prayer, and pen, and sword.
Elected, by his people!
His heart and theirs, one beat!
He sees the storm-clouds gather;
The waves dash at his feet!
Gloom upon land and water!
The Flag no more in the sun!
Lights from the South-line flickering,
And--dying--one--by one!
November's winds wild shrieking!
Night--closed, on a Union rent!
And still the lawyer sat dreaming
Of its once bright firmament.
Then, '61! Dark! Silent!
Only the calling word
Of Anderson at Sumter
The lawyer, writing, heard.
Writing the Message that ever
Shall live in the hearts of men;
With cannon to cannon fronting,
The lawyer held the pen.
Only thinking of Country
And the work that must be done;
Nature made in roughest mold
Her favored, fated son.
He wrote while the world was waiting
Great Freedom's final test.
Should, or should not Democracy
Be planted in the West?
Should Liberty at last survive
And man look straight on man?
Law, in its round, its strength and might
Be timed unto sense and plan?
He, in his chair there sitting,
Had all these things for thought.
Now, the Vote unrecognized,
Must battles wild be fought?
Alone the Chair is standing,
To remind the Land of the time
When the Slaver's heart, all passion,
He planned, and pursued his crime!
As he rushed Disunion's order,
On, on from State to State!
And the Pen talked loud down the Message,
And bided the Land to wait.
[Illustration: LINCOLN AS CANDIDATE FOR UNITED STATES SENATOR