the forge, the plow!

(When Justice shall unsheathe her brand--
If Mercy may not stay her hand,
Nor would we have it so--
She must direct the blow!)

So, sweetly, sadly, sternly goes
The Fallen to his last repose;
Beneath no mighty dome,
But in his modest Home!

The churchyard where his children rest,
The quiet spot that suits him best;
There shall his grave be made,
And there his bones be laid!

And there his countrymen shall come,
With memory proud, with pity dumb,
And strangers far and near,
For many and many a year!

For many a year, and many an age,
With History on her ample page
The virtues shall enroll
Of that Paternal Soul.

William Cullen Bryant, born in Cummington, Massachusetts, November 3,
1794. Died in New York, June 12, 1878. He wrote verses in his twelfth
year to be recited at school. Spent two years at Williams College and
at the age of eighteen began the study of law. He depended upon his
profession for a number of years, although it was not to his liking.
His contributions to the _North American Review_ and his poems
published therein gained him an enviable reputation, and reflected
great credit upon him.

THE DEATH OF LINCOLN

Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare,
Gentle and merciful and just!
Who, in the fear of God didst bear
The sword of power, a nation's trust.

In sorrow by thy bier we stand,
Amid the awe that hushes all,
And speak the anguish of a land
That shook with horror at thy fall.

Thy task is done; the bond is free--
We bear thee to an honored grave,
Whose noblest monument shall be
The broken fetters of the slave.

Pure was thy life; its bloody close
Hath placed thee with the sons of light
Among the noble host of those
Who perished in the cause of right.

[Illustration: CITY HALL, NEW YORK, N. Y.]

At the time of the appearance of t