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To trust it loyally as he

Who, heedful of his high design,

Ne'er raised a seeking eye to thine, But wrought thy will unconsciously,

Disputing not of chance or fate,

Nor questioning of cause or creed:

For anything but duty's deed Too simply wise, too humbly great.

The cannon syllabled his name;

His shadow shifted o'er the land,

Portentous, as at his command Successive cities sprang to flame!

He fringed the continent with fire,

The rivers ran in lines of light!

Thy will be done on earth-if right Or wrong he cared not to inquire.

His was the heavy hand, and his

The service of the despot blade;

His the soft answer that allayed War's giant animosities.

Let us have peace: our clouded eyes

Fill, Father, with another light,

That we may see with clearer sight Thy servant's soul in Paradise.

THE BURIAL OF GRANT 1

New York, August 8, 1885

BY RICHARD WATSON GILDER

Ye living soldiers of the mighty war,

Once more from roaring cannon and the drums

And bugles blown at morn, the summons comes; Forget the halting limb, each wound and scar;

Once more your Captain calls to you;
Come to his last review !

And come ye, too, bright spirits of the dead,

Ye who went heavenward from the embattled field;

And ye whose harder fate it was to yield
Life from the loathful prison or anguished bed:

Dear ghosts! come join your comrades here
Beside this sacred bier.

Nor be ye absent, ye immortal band,

Warriors of ages past, and our own age,

Who drew the sword for right, and not in rage,
Made war that peace might live in all the land,

Nor ever struck one vengeful blow,
But helped the fallen foe.

And fail not ye—but, ah, ye falter not

To join his army of the dead and living,
Ye who once felt his might, and his forgiving:
By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

Brothers, whom more in love than hate he smote.

For all his countrymen make room

By our great hero's tomb!
Come soldiers --not to battle as of yore,

But come to weep; ay, shed your noblest tears;

For lo, the stubborn chief, who knew not fears,
Lies cold at last, ye shall not see him more.

How long grim Death he fought and well,
That, poor, lean frame doth tell.

All's over now; here let our Captain rest,

Silent amid the blare of praise and blame;

Here let him rest, alone with his great fame,-
Here in the city's heart he loved the best,

And where our sons his tomb may see,
To make them brave as he:-

As brave as he-he on whose iron arm

Our Greatest leaned, our gentlest and most wise,

Leaned when all other help seemed mocking lies, While this one soldier checked the tide of harm,

And they together saved the State,
And made it free and great.

THE GRAVES OF THE PATRIOTS

BY JAMES GATES PERCIVAL

Here rest the great and good,-here they repose
After their generous toil. A sacred band,
They take their sleep together, while the year

Comes with its early flowers to deck their graves,
And gather them again, as winter frowns.
Theirs is no vulgar sepulcher,-green sods
Are all their monument; and yet it tells
A nobler history than pillared piles,
Or the eternal pyramids. They need
No statue nor inscription to reveal
Their greatness. It is round them; and the joy
With which their children tread the hallowed ground
That holds their venerated bones, the peace
That smiles on all they fought for, and the wealth
That clothes the land they rescued, -these, though

mute
As feeling ever is when deepest,—these
Are monuments more lasting than the fanes
Reared to the kings and demi-gods of old.
Touch not the ancient elms, that bend their shade
Over the lowly graves; beneath their boughs
There is a solemn darkness, even at noon,
Suited to such as visit at the shrine
Of serious liberty. No factious voice
Called them unto the field of generous fame,
But the pure consecrated love of home.
No deeper feeling sways us, when it wakes
In all its greatness. It has told itself
To the astonished gaze of awe-struck kings,
At Marathon, at Bannockburn, and here,
Where first our patriots sent the invader back,
Broken and cowed. Let these green elms be all
To tell us where they fought, and where they lie.
Their feelings were all nature; and they need
No art to make them known. They live in us,

While we are like them, simple, hardy, bold,
Worshiping nothing but our own pure hearts
And the one universal Lord. They need
No column pointing to the heaven they sought
To tell us of their home. The heart itself,
Left to its own free purposes, hastens there,
And there alone reposes. Let these elms
Bend their protecting shades o'er their graves,
And build with their green roof the only fane,
Where we may gather on the hallowed day,
That rose to them in blood, and set in glory.
Here let us meet; and while our motionless lips
Give not a sound, and all around is mute
In the deep sabbath of a heart too full
For words or tears,—here let us strew the sod
With the first flowers of spring, and make to them
An offering of the plenty Nature gives,
And they have rendered ours,-perpetually.

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! 1

BY WALT WHITMAN

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought

is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all ex

ulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and

daring; * By permission of the publisher, David McKay, Philadelphia.

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