��ABRAHAM LIXCOLX WALKS AT MIDNIGHT
(In Springfield, Illinois)
It is portentous, and a thing of state That here at midnight, in our little town A mourning figure walks, and will not rest, Near the old court-house pacing up and down.
Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards He lingers where his children used to play. Or through the market, on the well-worn stones He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away.
A bronzed, lank man ! His suit of ancient black, A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl Make him the quaint great figure that men love, The prairie-lawyer, master of us all.
He cannot sleep upon his hillside now.
He is among us : — as in times before !
And we who toss and lie awake for long
Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.
His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings. Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep ? Too many peasants fight, they know not why, Too many homesteads in black terror weep.
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