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, His was the heavy hand, and his The service of the despot blade; 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, Nor be ye absent, ye immortal band, Warriors of ages past, and our own age,- 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: 1By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Brothers, whom more in love than hate he smote. 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, All's over now; here let our Captain rest, And where our sons his tomb may see, 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 Comes with its early flowers to deck their graves, No statue nor inscription to reveal Their greatness. It is round them; and the joy That smiles on all they fought for, and the wealth mute As feeling ever is when deepest,—these Are monuments more lasting than the fanes Touch not the ancient elms, that bend their shade While we are like them, simple, hardy, bold, For words or tears,-here let us strew the sod O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!1 BY WALT WHITMAN O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, 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 1 daring; 1By permission of the publisher, David McKay, Philadelphia. |