His Face

They tell you Lincoln was ungainly, plain?To some he seemed so: true.Yet in his look was charm to gainE'en such as I, who knewWith how confirmed a will he triedTo overthrow a cause for which I would have died.

The sun may shine with naught to shroudIts beam, yet show less brightThan when from out eclipsing cloudIt pours its radiant light;And Lincoln, seen amid the shows of warClothed in his sober black, was somehow felt the more

To be a centre and a soul of power,—An influence benignTo kindle in a faithless hourNew trust in the divine.Grave was his visage, but no cloud could dullThe 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 thirstWhile yet his lips were dumb;For such compassion as his countenance woreI had not seen nor felt in human face before.

And when, low-bending o'er his foe,He took in his firm handMy wasted one, I seemed to knowWe 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 knewHis the divinest face I ever looked into!