AN AMERICAN AT LINCOLN
The vast cathedral-crown of the high hill,
The long, low-vaulted nave, the transepts where
The light is glory shed through windows rare
In 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 place
Athrob with harmonies, a boyish face—
English, yet with the look of awed desire
Which 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 Land
Across the deep and all-dividing sea!
I read thy soul and theirs who founded thee
With sacrifices few could understand—
Renouncing and enduring silently.
