Ii

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.