orth from heathen kingdoms, and isles beyond the sea,
The glorious tidings of the Book spread Christ's salvation free.

So I cling to my mother's Bible, in its torn and tattered boards,
As one of the greatest gems of art, and the king of all other hoards,
As in life the true consoler, and in death ere the Judgment call,
The guide that will lead to the shining shore, where the Father waits
for all.

Lincoln, the Man of the People

This poem was read by Edwin Markham at the dedication of the Lincoln
Memorial at Washington, D.C., May 30, 1922. Before reading, he said: "No
oration, no poem, can rise to the high level of this historic hour.
Nevertheless, I venture to inscribe this revised version of my Lincoln
poem to this stupendous Lincoln Memorial, to this far-shining monument
of remembrance, erected in immortal marble to the honor of our deathless
martyr--the consecrated statesman, the ideal American, the ever-beloved
friend of humanity."

When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour
Greatening and darkening as it hurried on,
She left the Heaven of Heroes and came down
To make a man to meet the mortal need,
She took the tried clay of the common road--
Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth,
Dasht through it all a strain of prophecy;
Tempered the heap with thrill of human tears;
Then mixt a laughter with the serious stuff.
Into the shape she breathed a flame to light
That tender, tragic, ever-changing face;
And laid on him a sense of the Mystic Powers,
Moving--all husht--behind the mortal veil.
Here was a man to hold against the world,
A man to match the mountains and the sea.

The color of the ground was in him, the red earth;
The smack and tang of elemental things;
The rectitude and patience of the cliff;
The good-will of the rain that loves all leaves;
The friendly welcome of the wayside well;
The courage of the bird that dares the sea;
The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn;
The pity of the snow that hides all scars;
The secrecy of streams that make their way
Under the mountain to the rifted rock;
The tolerance and equity of light
That gives as freely to the shrinking flower
As to the great oak flaring to the wind--
To the grave's low hill as to the Matterhorn
That shoulders out the sky. Sprung from the West,
He drank the valorous youth of a new world.
The strength of virgin forests braced his mind,
The hush of spacious prairies stilled his soul.
His words were oaks in acorns;