LINCOLN, THE MAN OF THE PEOPLE
Edwin Markham (1852 - 1940)
I like Edwin Markham's poetry a lot. For many people, his work is too sentimental, or too dramatic, or too mystic, or too religious, or too radical, or too political. I like it because it is all of those things. And I like it because it is fun to read. They don't make poets like Markham anymore, and as far as I'm concerned it is a shame.
By far, Markham's best known poem is "The Man with the Hoe," which is a ringing protest against the exploitation of labor. It was inspired by the famous painting by Jean Francois Millet. And it made Markham famous. The poem was published early in 1899, and was instantly popular around the world, particularly among participants in the international labor movement, which was extremely active at the time.
In case you have forgotten, the poem opens with these lines: "Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground, The emptiness of ages in his face, And on his back the burden of the world . . ." If you decide to review Markham's work, don't neglect "How the Great Guest Came." It is a wonderful, inspiring religious poem. And read "The Prayer" too.
I have chosen Markham's "Lincoln, The Man of the People" because I have always enjoyed it so much. It was written in response to a request for a poem to honor Lincoln's birthday in 1900. It too was an instant success, rivaling the popularity of "The Man with the Hoe."
According to the Anthology of Modern American Poetry, Jack London compared this poem with Walt Whitman's "O Captain, My Captain," and "suggested that in the future, Markham would be the poetic name most closely associated" with Lincoln's legacy. Indeed, Markham was asked to read this poem at the dedication of the Lincoln memorial in Washington, D.C. in 1922.
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Lincoln, The Man of the People
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,
Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy;
Tempered the heap with thrill of human tears;
Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff.
Into the shape she breathed a flame to light
That tender, tragic, ever-changing face.
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
Beneath 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,
The strength of virgin forests braced his mind,
The hush of spacious prairies stilled his soul.
Up from log cabin to the Capitol,
One fire was on his spirit, one resolve:--
To send the keen axe to the root of wrong,
Clearing a free way for the feet of God.
And evermore he burned to do his deed
With the fine stroke and gesture of a king:
He built the rail-pile as he built the State,
Pouring his splendid strength through every blow;
The conscience of him testing every stroke,
To make his deed the measure of a man.
So came the Captain with the mighty heart;
And when the judgment thunders split the house,
Wrenching the rafters from their ancient rest,
He held the ridgepole up, and spiked again
The rafters of the Home. He held his place--
Held the long purpose like a growing tree--
Held on through blame and faltered not at praise.
And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down
As when a lordly cedar, green with boughs,
Goes down with a great shout upon the hills,
And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.
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