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THE LINCOLN CIRCUIT

In Springfield, where his ashes lie,
A granite column rises high;
To Springfield, year on year, there wends
A caravan, that never ends.
Of pilgrims, eager, come to pay
Their homage to his sacred clay;
And yet methinks the true estate
Of Lincoln, humble, simple, great,
Is better sensed in village street,
Where once he loved to walk and greet
In heartiness his fellows all,
In mart, in courthouse, tavern hall.
Methinks his spirit lingers where
He lived and wrought. No sepulcher
Of stately grandeur, cold and dim,
Can hold the human heart of him.

The little towns, the county seats,
With dreaming squares and idling streets,
Plain homes of plainer pioneers,
Unsung, yet hallowed through the years
Because in distant times they saw
Him come and go to practise law,
Tell homely tales, crack homely jokes
And neighbor with the common folks-
The little towns, the country roads,
The woods, the prairies, the abodes
Of humble men where malice fails
And charity for all avails—
These are the shrines that still enfold
The heart of Lincoln as of old,
Whose living legend runneth thus:
We loved him; he was one of us.

E. O. LAUGHLIN.

From the Ladies' Home Journal.

THE HYMN OF ARMAGEDDON
Apocalyptic roll out of the East.
The day of judgment is at hand and we shall slay the Beast.
What are the seven heads of him—the Beast that shall be slain?
Sullivan, Taggart, Barnes, Penrose, Murphy, Crane.
Into what cities leads his trail in venom steeped and gore?
Ask Frisco, ask Chicago, mark New York and Baltimore.
Where shall we wage the battle, for whom unsheathe the sword?
We stand at Armageddon and we batile for the Lord !
Tho hell spit forth its snarling host we shall not flinch nor quail,
For in the last great skirmish God's own truth must prevail

. Have they not seen the writing that flames upon the wall

, Of how the house is built of sand, and how their pride must fall? The cough of little lads that sweat where never sun/sheds light, The sob of starving children, and their mothers in the night, Who stand at Armageddon and who battle for the Lord ! God's soldiers from the West are we, from North, and East and South, The seed of them who flung the tea into the harbor's mouth, And those who fought where Grant fought and those who fought with Lee, And those who under alien stars first dreamed of liberty. Not those of little faith whose speech is soft, whose ways are dark, Nor those upon whose forehead the Beast has set his mark. Out of the hand of justice we snatch her faltering sword; We stand at Armageddon and we baltle for the Lord ! The sternest militant of God whose trumpet in the fray Has cleft the city into three shall lead us on this day. The holy strength that David had in his, the faith that saves, For he shall free the toilers as Abe Lincoln freed the slaves. And he shall rouse the lukewarm and those whose eyes are dim, The hope of twenty centuries has found a voice in him. Because the Beast shall froth with wrath and perish by his sword. He leads at Armageddon the legions of the Lord ! For he shall move the mountains that groan with ancient sham, And mete with equal measure to the lion and the lamb. And he shall wipe away the tears that burn on woman's cheek, For in the nation's council, hence the mothers, too, shall speak. Through him the rose of peace shall blow from the red rose of strife, America shall write his name into the Book of Life. And when at Armageddon we battle with the sword Shall fise the mystic commonwealth, the City of the Lord.

GEORGE SYLVESTER VIERECK. From Current Literature, 1912.

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He held the faith; the path he trod
Was rough and thorny, yet he fought
Like one by destiny besought,
And kept his covenant with God.

EDWARD PARKER Davis.

From Literary Digest.

LAMENT OF THE PLAYERS

Our friend has gone the one who sat in front

And smiled at us, and gave us heart of cheer The while his own great heart bore full the brunt

Of all the torment of each passing year.

We see him now, his face, so troubled, stern,

All marked with cares that pierce the souls of men, And then a wit, a singer or a fool would turn

The storm to smiles, the man to boy again.

Through all the years when war so took its toll

That strength was sapped, the sharp eyes weary grew,
Steadfast to purpose, courage in the soul,

Ideals unaccomplished—these he knew.
He loved us well—that love our hearts' great balm.

And hallowed be the place where once he sat.
We helped at times to give him joy and calm

Thank God for that! ROLAND BURKE HENNESSY.

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On S Street to the rendezvous

The darkened house they came at last:
The sergeant silently withdrew-

The lipless bugler shrilled a blast;
The President! The gallant call

Startled the shadows with its flame,
And from the doorway, gaunt and tall,
The President-the Chieftain came!

HUBERT KELLEY.
From Kansas City Journal-Post.

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The spiteful will slander, the timid will clamor,
The sordid will barter, the crafty will plan;
But thanks be to God! that the strokes of his hammer
On Destiny's anvil have made us a Man!

One man who was faithful whatever assailed us,
Whose arm we found ready, whose heart we proved just;
A man with a vision, who never has failed us,
The man we have tested, the man whom we trust.

When others could falter, faint-hearted and hollow,
He caught up our banner, he rallied our might;
And glad were the hearts of young men to follow
The leader who laughed in the heat of the fight.
We called him to aid us when evil assailed us,
And still as our champion, still in the van
He battles, the Captain who never yet failed us,
Clear-sighted, true-hearted. Thank God for a Man.

ARTHUR GUITERMAN.

From New York Evening Mail, 1912.

TO ROBERT BROWNING

To tell the truth about you, Robert Browning,
I bring no wreath of laurel to your crowning
Save this: that no one who has loved can doubt you, Robert Browning.
An amateur of melody and hue,
Of marble outline and of Italy,
Of heresies and individuals
And every 'eccentricity of truth:
And yet an Englishman, a healthy brute
Loving old England, thrushes and the dawn;
A scholar loving careful gentlemen;
A man of fashion loving the universe;
A connoisseur loving dead artists' lives,
Their names, their labors and their enemies;
A poet loving all the ways of words;
A human being giving love as love,
Denying death and proving happiness.

WITTEN BYNNER.

From Boston Transcript, 1912.

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