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. The poets' Lincoln : tributes in verse to the martyred President. OF OUR PRESIDENTS (See page 80) HE sits there on the low, rude, backless bench,With his tall hat beside him, and one armFlung, thus, across his knee. The other handRests, flat, palm downward, by him on the seat.So yEsop may have sat; so Lincoln did.For all the sadness in the sunken eyes,For all the kingship in the uncrowned brow,The great form leans so friendly, father-like,It is a call to children. I have watchedEight at a time swarming upon him there,All clinging to him—riding upon his knees,Cuddling between his arms, claspi

. The poets' Lincoln : tributes in verse to the martyred President. OF OUR PRESIDENTS (See page 80) HE sits there on the low, rude, backless bench,With his tall hat beside him, and one armFlung, thus, across his knee. The other handRests, flat, palm downward, by him on the seat.So yEsop may have sat; so Lincoln did.For all the sadness in the sunken eyes,For all the kingship in the uncrowned brow,The great form leans so friendly, father-like,It is a call to children. I have watchedEight at a time swarming upon him there,All clinging to him—riding upon his knees,Cuddling between his arms, claspi Stock Photo
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. The poets' Lincoln : tributes in verse to the martyred President. OF OUR PRESIDENTS (See page 80) HE sits there on the low, rude, backless bench,With his tall hat beside him, and one armFlung, thus, across his knee. The other handRests, flat, palm downward, by him on the seat.So yEsop may have sat; so Lincoln did.For all the sadness in the sunken eyes,For all the kingship in the uncrowned brow,The great form leans so friendly, father-like,It is a call to children. I have watchedEight at a time swarming upon him there,All clinging to him—riding upon his knees,Cuddling between his arms, clasping his neck,Perched on his shoulders, even on his head;And one small, play-stained hand I saw reached upAnd laid most softly on the kind bronze lipsAs if it claimed them. These were the childrenOf foreigners we call them, but not soThey call themselves; for when we asked of one,A restless dark-eyed girl, who this man was,She answered straight, One of our Presidents. Let all the winds of hell blow in our sails,I thought, thank God, thank God the ship ridestrue!. HEAD OF LINCOLNThis medal was struck for the Grand Army of the Republic in commemora-tion of .the 100th anniversary of the birth of Abraham Lincoln THE POETS LINCOLN 239 FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN, son of JohnDempster and Lucy (McFarland) Sherman, wasborn May 6, 1860, at Peekskill, New York; edu-cated at home and at Columbia and Howard Uni-versities, and since 1886 connected with ColumbiaUniversity where he is Professor of Graphics. Authorof several volumes of poems which are published byHoughton-Mifflin Company, Boston. Professor Sherman married, November 16, 1887,Juliet Durand, daughter of Rev. Cyrus Bervic andSarah Elizabeth (Merserveau) Durand. He is a member of the National Institute of Arts andLetters. ON A BRONZE MEDAL OF LINCOLN THIS bronze our Lincolns noble head doth bear,Behold the strength and splendor of that face,So homely-beautiful, with just a traceOf humor lightening its look of care,With bronze indeed his