His Face

THEY tell you Lincoln was ungainly, plain? To some he seemed so: true. Yet in his look was charm to gain E'en such as I, who knew With how confirmed a will he tried To overthrow a cause for which I would have died.

The sun may shine with naught to shroud Its beam yet show less bright Than when from out eclipsing cloud It pours its radiant light; And Lincoln seen amid the shows of war Clothed in his sober black, was somehow felt the more

To be a centre and a soul of power,— An influence benign To kindle in a faithless hour New trust in the divine. Grave was his visage, but no cloud could dull The radiance from within that made it beautiful.

A prisoner, when I saw him first— Wounded and sick for home— His presence soothed my yearning's thirst While yet his lips were dumb; For such compassion as his countenance wore I had not seen nor felt in human face before.

And when, low-bending o'er his foe, He took in his firm hand My wasted one, I seemed to know We two were of one Land; And as my cheek flushed warm with young surprise, God's pity looked on me from Lincoln's sorrowing eyes.

His prisoner I was from then— Love makes surrender sure— And though I saw him not again, Some memories endure, And I am glad my untaught worship knew His the divinest face I ever looked into!