亚伯拉罕．林肯 Abraham Lincoln
亚伯拉罕．林肯 Abraham Lincoln Samuel Valentine Cole
Whence came this man? As if on the wings
Of the winds of God that blew!
He moved, undaunted, mid captians and kings,
And, not having learned, he knew I
Was he son of the soil, or child of the sky?
Or, pray, was he both? Ah me!
How little they dreamed, as the storm rolled high,
What he was, and was to be!
When trembled the lamps of hopes, or quite
Blew out in that furious gale,
He drew his light from the Larger Light
Above him that did not fail:
Heaven-led all trials and perils among,
As unto some splendid goal
He fared right onward, unflinching—this strong
God-gifted, heroic soul!
We know him now how noble his part,
And how clear was his vision then!
With the firmest hand and the kindliest heart
Of them all—this master of men!
Of the pride of power or the lust of self,
Oh never a taint we find:
He lost himself in the larger self
Of his country and all mankind.
There are those called great, or good, by right
But as long as the long roll is,
Not many the names, with the double light
Of greatness and goodness like his.
Thrice happy the nation that holds him dear
Who never can wholly die,
Never cease to bestow of his counsel and cheer,
As the perilous years go by!
For after the trumpets have ceased to blow,
And the banners are folded away,
And the stress and the splendor forgotten, we know,
Of a truth, in that judgment day,
That whatso'er else, in the Stream that rolls,
May sink and be utterly gone,
The souls of the men who were true to their souls
Forever go marching on!
There are those whose like, it was somehow planned,
We never again shall see;
But I would to God there were more in the land
As true and as simple as he,—
As he who walked in our common ways,
With the seal of a king on his brow;
Who lived as a man among men his days,
And belongs to the ages now!
寇勒（Samuel Valentine Cole, 1851-1925）美国诗人。
亚伯拉罕.林肯 Abraham Lincoln William Cullen Bryant
Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare,
Gentle and merciful and just!
Who, in the fear of God, didst bear
The sword of power, a nation's trust!
In sorrow by thy bier we stand,
Amid the awe that hushes all,
And speak the anguish of a land
That shook with horror at thy fall.
Thy task is done; the bond are free;
We bear thee to an honored grave,
Whose proudest monument shall be
The broken fetters of the slave.
Pure was thy life; its bloody close
Hath placed thee with the sons of light,
Among the noble host of those
Who perished in the cause of Right.
William Cullen Bryant