By George Rogers
Abe Lincoln, Vampire Hunter?
As if being husband, father, President, and emancipator weren’t enough, soon you can add Vampire Slayer to the list of Abraham Lincoln’s many formidable roles. Yes, best-selling author Seth Grahame-Smith, author of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, is working on his next novel: Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter, which, according to The New York Times, “imagines the 16th president dedicating himself to the great task of ensuring that the undead shall perish from the earth.” All of us here at the Cottage are sure that Mr. Lincoln is up to the task. And perhaps that explains Lincoln’s late night walks in the U.S. Soldiers’ Home National Cemetery….
President Lincoln's Cottage Blog 
Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight by Vachel Lindsay
In Springfield, Illinois
IT is portentious, 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 by 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 or 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.
The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart.
He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main.
He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now
The bitterness, the folly and the pain.
He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn
Shall come:–the shining hope of Europe free:
The league of sober folk, the Workers’ Earth,
Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea.
It breaks his heart that kings must murder still,
That all his hours of travail here for men
Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace
That he may sleep upon his hill again?