Page:Poems, now first collected, Stedman, 1897.djvu/26

THE HAND OF LINCOLN 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,—

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