Check to see if you have an audio plugin installed so you can listen to these poems Test
This is Windows MediaPlayer - push play and the poem will play as it downloads - this is called streaming audio. This is the Quicktime player - it also seems to stream the audio - watch the download progress in the indicator bar.
 If the poem skips during the 1st playing let the whole poem play and then run it again - the skips will disappear  If the poem skips just hit stop then run it again and it won't skip -there is a volume control at the extreme left of this control
Abraham Lincoln -Tom Taylor

Foully Assassinated April, 14, 1865

American tributes to Lincoln are innumerable; let us close with a tribute from an Englishman who repented his malign attacks on the martyred President and was courageous enough to say so. Tom Taylor was the son of a laborer, and one might have expected from him some understanding of Lincoln, and of the Union cause. A man of varied talents - he had studied law, was an art critic for the London Times, and had written several score plays - he is remembered as editor of Punch. Throughout the war Punch was ceaselessly critical of the North, and of Lincoln. Here it Tom Taylor's mea culpa.

You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier,
You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace
Broad for the self-complacent British sneer
His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face,

His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair,
His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease;
His lack of all we prize as debonair,
Of power or will to shine, of art to please.

You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh,
Judging each step, as though the way were plain;
Reckless, so it could point its paragraph
Of chief's perplexity or people's pain.

Beside this corps, that beats for winding sheet
The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew,
Between the mourners at his head and feet,
Say, scurril-jester, is there room for you?

Yes, he had lived to shame me from my sneer,
To lame my pencil, and confute my pen-
To make me own this hind of princes peer,
This rail-splitter a true-born king of men....

The Old World and the New, from sea to sea,
Utter one voice of sympathy and shame!
Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high,
Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came.

A deed accurst! Strokes have been struck before
By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt
If more of horror or disgrace they bore;
But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out.

Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife,
Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven;
And with the martyr's crown crownest a life
With much to praise, little to be forgiven!

If you reached this page from a search engine, my compendium of classic English and American poetry is Here