An American at Lincoln

The vast cathedral-crown of the high hill,The long, low-vaulted nave, the transepts whereThe light is glory shed through windows rareIn rainbow tintings: glory deep and still,Gift of a past forever present there!

Beyond the lantern, the carved Gothic Choir,And, as interpreting the hallowed placeAthrob with harmonies, a boyish face—English, yet with the look of awed desireWhich speaks America,—the younger race.

In the half parted lips without a smile,In the whole rapt, impassioned gaze,I read the travail of the distant days,The wistful hunger of the Long Exile—The yearning that survives through all delays:

I read thy soul, my Country! thou dear LandAcross the deep and all-dividing sea!I read thy soul and theirs who founded theeWith sacrifices few could understand—Renouncing and enduring silently.

And I perceived that thou hast still retainedTheir strength to toil, their courage to resist:That seeking ardently whate'er they missed,Thou hast remained—in spite of all, remained—That which they made thee—an idealist!

And once again I felt how blest it isTo hunger and to thirst: anew I sawThat by eternal high-appointed law,Sublimity and beauty most are hisIn whom they move the deepest thrill of awe!