Look on this cast, and know the hand That bore a nation in its hold: From this mute witness understand What Lincoln was,—how large of mould The man who sped the woodman’s team, And deepest sunk the ploughman’s share, And pushed the laden raft astream, Of fate before him unaware. This was the hand that knew to swing The axe—since thus would Freedom train Her son—and made the forest ring, And drove the wedge, and toiled amain. Firm hand, that loftier office took, A conscious leader’s will obeyed, And, when men sought his word and look, With steadfast might the gathering swayed. No courtier’s, toying with a sword, Nor minstrel’s, laid across a lute; A chief’s, uplifted to the Lord When all the kings of earth were mute! The hand of Anak, sinewed strong, The fingers that on greatness clutch; Yet, lo! the marks their lines along Of one who strove and suffered much. For here in knotted cord and vein I trace the varying chart of years; I know the troubled heart, the strain, The weight of Atlas—and the tears. Again I see the patient brow That palm erewhile was wont to press; And now ’t is furrowed deep, and now Made smooth with hope and tenderness. For something of a formless grace This moulded outline plays about; A pitying flame, beyond our trace, Breathes like a spirit, in and out,— The love that cast an aureole Round one who, longer to endure, Called mirth to ease his ceaseless dole, Yet kept his nobler purpose sure. Lo, as I gaze, the statured man, Built up from yon large hand, appears: A type that Nature wills to plan But once in all a people’s years. What better than this voiceless cast To tell of such a one as he, Since through its living semblance passed The thought that bade a race be free!
The Hand of Lincoln
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