The peaceful valley reaching wide,
The wild war stilled on every hand;
On Pisgah's top our prophet died,
In sight of promised land.
Low knelt the foeman's serried fronts,
His cannon closed their lips of brass,--
The din of arms hushed all at once
To let this good man pass.
A cheerful heart he wore alway,
Though tragic years clashed on the while;
Death sat behind him at the play--
His last look was a smile.
No battle-pike his march imbrued,
Unarmed he went midst martial mails,
The footsore felt their hopes renewed
To hear his homely tales.
His single arm crushed wrong and thrall
That grand good will we only dreamed,
Two races wept around his pall,
One saved and one redeemed.
The trampled flag he raised again,
And healed our eagle's broken wing;
The night that scattered armed men
Saw scorpions rise to sting.
[Illustration: PRESIDENT LINCOLN