XI

"Before him not the ghost of shores,Before him only shoreless seas,"

sailed toward the mysterious continent that lay hidden in the West; sings it from the thrilling moment when the weary sailors sighted the new land, up to the twentieth century, when Old Glory waves

"Wherever the sails of peace are seenAnd wherever the war-wind blows."

Heroic figures, familiar to us from childhood, appear in these metrical versions of episodes in our national history. Here is the red man whose hour, alas! was struck when first the pale-face looked upon his happy hunting-grounds; here are Pocahontas and her Captain; the Pilgrim Fathers; Washington, the soldier-statesman; the embattled farmers who fired at Concord the shot heard round the world; the Continentals in their ragged regimentals, and Old Ironsides with its memories of 1812. Then, when "westward the Star of Empire takes its way," come the Argonauts of '49, crossing the plains in their white-sailed prairie schooners in search, like Jason, of the Golden Fleece.

The years move on, and Abraham Lincoln, the Great Commoner, dear benefactor of the race, appears, and, kneeling at his feet, the dusky slave whose bonds he loosened. Gallant Phil Sheridan and Barbara Frietchie are here too; indeed, you will find that the number of poems inspired by the Civil War is very great; but the patriot host, above, below, knows now no North nor South; and Lincoln's "dear majestic ghost" looks down upon, as Old Glory floats over, a united commonwealth.

Long as thine art shall love true love,Long as thy science truth shall know,Long as thine eagle harms no dove,Long as thy law by law shall grow,Long as thy God is God above,Thy brother every man below,So long, dear land of all my love,Thy name shall shine, thy fame shall glow.Sidney Lanier.From "The Centennial Ode"(1876).

Sidney Lanier.

From "The Centennial Ode"(1876).

[18]From "Poems of Sidney Lanier," copyright 1891, and published by Charles Scribner's Sons.

Behind him lay the gray Azores,Behind the gates of Hercules;Before him not the ghost of shores,Before him only shoreless seas.The good mate said: "Now must we pray,For, lo! the very stars are gone.Brave Adm'r'l, speak; what shall I say?""Why, say: 'Sail on, sail on! and on!'""My men grow mutinous day by day;My men grow ghastly wan and weak."The stout mate thought of home; a sprayOf salt wave washed his swarthy cheek."What shall I say, brave Adm'r'l, say,If we sight not but seas at dawn?""Why, you shall say, at break of day:'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'"They sailed and sailed as winds might blow,Until at last the blanched mate said:"Why, now not even God would knowShould I and all my men fall dead.These very winds forget the way,For God from these dread seas is gone.Now speak, brave Adm'r'l, speak and say—"He said: "Sail on! sail on! and on!"They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate:"This mad sea shows his teeth to-night;He curls his lip, he lies in wait,With lifted teeth, as if to bite:Brave Adm'r'l, say but one good word;What shall we do when hope is gone?"The words leapt as a leaping sword:"Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"Then, pale and worn, he kept his deckAnd peered through darkness. Ah, that nightOf all dark nights! And then a speck—A light! a light! a light! a light!It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!It grew to be Time's burst of dawn.He gained a world; he gave that worldIts greatest lesson: "On! sail on!"Joaquin Miller.

"My men grow mutinous day by day;My men grow ghastly wan and weak."The stout mate thought of home; a sprayOf salt wave washed his swarthy cheek."What shall I say, brave Adm'r'l, say,If we sight not but seas at dawn?""Why, you shall say, at break of day:'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'"

They sailed and sailed as winds might blow,Until at last the blanched mate said:"Why, now not even God would knowShould I and all my men fall dead.These very winds forget the way,For God from these dread seas is gone.Now speak, brave Adm'r'l, speak and say—"He said: "Sail on! sail on! and on!"

They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate:"This mad sea shows his teeth to-night;He curls his lip, he lies in wait,With lifted teeth, as if to bite:Brave Adm'r'l, say but one good word;What shall we do when hope is gone?"The words leapt as a leaping sword:"Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deckAnd peered through darkness. Ah, that nightOf all dark nights! And then a speck—A light! a light! a light! a light!It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!It grew to be Time's burst of dawn.He gained a world; he gave that worldIts greatest lesson: "On! sail on!"

Joaquin Miller.

[19]From "The Complete Poetical Works of Joaquin Miller" (copyrighted). By permission of the publishers, The Whitaker-Ray Company, San Francisco.

Wearied arm and broken swordWage in vain the desperate fight;Round him press a countless horde,He is but a single knight.Hark! a cry of triumph shrillThrough the wilderness resounds,As, with twenty bleeding wounds,Sinks the warrior, fighting still.Now they heap the funeral pyre,And the torch of death they light;Ah! 'tis hard to die by fire!Who will shield the captive knight?Round the stake with fiendish cryWheel and dance the savage crowd,Cold the victim's mien and proud,And his breast is bared to die.Who will shield the fearless heart?Who avert the murderous blade?From the throng with sudden startSee, there springs an Indian maid.Quick she stands before the knight:"Loose the chain, unbind the ring!I am daughter of the king.And I claim the Indian right!"Dauntlessly aside she flingsLifted axe and thirsty knife,Fondly to his heart she clings,And her bosom guards his life!In the woods of Powhattan,Still 'tis told by Indian firesHow a daughter of their siresSaved a captive Englishman.William Makepeace Thackeray.

Now they heap the funeral pyre,And the torch of death they light;Ah! 'tis hard to die by fire!Who will shield the captive knight?Round the stake with fiendish cryWheel and dance the savage crowd,Cold the victim's mien and proud,And his breast is bared to die.

Who will shield the fearless heart?Who avert the murderous blade?From the throng with sudden startSee, there springs an Indian maid.Quick she stands before the knight:"Loose the chain, unbind the ring!I am daughter of the king.And I claim the Indian right!"

Dauntlessly aside she flingsLifted axe and thirsty knife,Fondly to his heart she clings,And her bosom guards his life!In the woods of Powhattan,Still 'tis told by Indian firesHow a daughter of their siresSaved a captive Englishman.

William Makepeace Thackeray.

The breaking waves dashed highOn a stern and rock-bound coast,And the woods against a stormy skyTheir giant branches tossed;And the heavy night hung darkThe hills and waters o'er,When a band of exiles moored their barkOn the wild New England shore.Not as the conqueror comes,They, the true-hearted, came;Not with the roll of the stirring drums,And the trumpet that sings of fame:Not as the flying come,In silence and in fear:They shook the depths of the desert's gloomWith their hymns of lofty cheer.Amidst the storm they sang;And the stars heard, and the sea;And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rangTo the Anthem of the Free.The ocean eagle soaredFrom his nest by the white wave's foam;And the rocking pines of the forest roared,—This was their welcome home!There were men with hoary hairAmidst that pilgrim band:Why had they come to wither there,Away from their childhood's land?There was woman's fearless eye,Lit by her deep love's truth;There was manhood's brow, serenely high,And the fiery heart of youth.What sought they thus afar?Bright jewels of the mine?The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?—They sought a faith's pure shrine!Ay, call it holy ground,The soil where first they trod;—They have left unstained what there they found—Freedom to worship God.Felicia Hemans.

Not as the conqueror comes,They, the true-hearted, came;Not with the roll of the stirring drums,And the trumpet that sings of fame:Not as the flying come,In silence and in fear:They shook the depths of the desert's gloomWith their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang;And the stars heard, and the sea;And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rangTo the Anthem of the Free.The ocean eagle soaredFrom his nest by the white wave's foam;And the rocking pines of the forest roared,—This was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hairAmidst that pilgrim band:Why had they come to wither there,Away from their childhood's land?There was woman's fearless eye,Lit by her deep love's truth;There was manhood's brow, serenely high,And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar?Bright jewels of the mine?The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?—They sought a faith's pure shrine!Ay, call it holy ground,The soil where first they trod;—They have left unstained what there they found—Freedom to worship God.

Felicia Hemans.

Wild was the day; the wintry seaMoaned sadly on New England's strand,When first the thoughtful and the free,Our fathers, trod the desert land.They little thought how pure a light,With years, should gather round that day;How love should keep their memories bright,How wide a realm their sons should sway.Green are their bays; but greener stillShall round their spreading fame be wreathed,And regions, now untrod, shall thrillWith reverence when their names are breathed,Till where the sun, with softer fires,Looks on the vast Pacific's sleep,The children of the Pilgrim siresThis hallowed day like us shall keep.William Cullen Bryant.

Wild was the day; the wintry seaMoaned sadly on New England's strand,When first the thoughtful and the free,Our fathers, trod the desert land.

They little thought how pure a light,With years, should gather round that day;How love should keep their memories bright,How wide a realm their sons should sway.

Green are their bays; but greener stillShall round their spreading fame be wreathed,And regions, now untrod, shall thrillWith reverence when their names are breathed,

Till where the sun, with softer fires,Looks on the vast Pacific's sleep,The children of the Pilgrim siresThis hallowed day like us shall keep.

William Cullen Bryant.

[20]By courtesy of D. Appleton & Co., publishers of Bryant's Complete Poetical Works.

Soldier and statesman, rarest unison;High-poised example of great duties doneSimply as breathing, a world's honors wornAs life's indifferent gifts to all men born;Dumb for himself, unless it were to God,But for his barefoot soldiers eloquent,Tramping the snow to coral where they trod,Held by his awe in hollow-eyed content;Modest, yet firm as Nature's self; unblamedSave by the men his nobler temper shamed;Never seduced through show of present goodBy other than unsetting lights to steerNew-trimmed in Heaven, nor than his steadfast moodMore steadfast, far from rashness as from fear;Rigid, but with himself first, grasping stillIn swerveless poise the wave-beat helm of will;Not honored then or now because he wooedThe popular voice, but that he still withstood;Broad-minded, higher-souled, there is but oneWho was all this and ours, and all men's,—Washington.James Russell Lowell.From "Under the Old Elm."

James Russell Lowell.

From "Under the Old Elm."

Stand! the ground's your own, my braves!Will ye give it up to slaves?Will ye look for greener graves?Hope ye mercy still?What's the mercy despots feel?Hear it in that battle peal!Read it on yon bristling steel!Ask it,—ye who will!Fear ye foes who kill for hire?Will ye to your homes retire?Look behind you! they're afire,And, before you, seeWho have done it!—From the valeOn they come!—and will ye quail?—Leaden rain and leaden hailLet their welcome be!In the God of battles trust!Die we may,—and die we must;But oh, where can dust to dustBe consigned so well,As where Heaven its dews shall shedOn the martyred patriot's bed,And the rocks shall raise their headOf his deeds to tell!John Pierpont.

Fear ye foes who kill for hire?Will ye to your homes retire?Look behind you! they're afire,And, before you, seeWho have done it!—From the valeOn they come!—and will ye quail?—Leaden rain and leaden hailLet their welcome be!

In the God of battles trust!Die we may,—and die we must;But oh, where can dust to dustBe consigned so well,As where Heaven its dews shall shedOn the martyred patriot's bed,And the rocks shall raise their headOf his deeds to tell!

John Pierpont.

In their ragged regimentalsStood the old Continentals,Yielding not,When the grenadiers were lunging,And like hail fell the plungingCannon shot;When the filesOf the isles,From their smoky night encampment, bore the banner of the rampantUnicorn,And grummer, grummer, grummer, roll'd the roll of the drummer,Through the morn!Then with eyes to the front all,And guns horizontal,Stood our sires;And the balls whistled deadly,And in streams flashing redlyBlazed the fires;As the roarOn the shore,Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green sodded acresOf the plain;And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gunpowder,Cracking amain!Now like smiths at their forgesWorked the red Saint George'sCannoniers,And the "villainous saltpetre"Rung a fierce, discordant metre'Round their ears;As the swiftStorm-drift,With hot, sweeping anger, came the Horse Guards' clangorOn our flanks;And higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned fireThrough the ranks!Then the old-fashioned ColonelGalloped through the white infernalPowder cloud;His broad-sword was swinging,And his brazen throat was ringingTrumpet loud;Then the blueBullets flew,And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leadenRifle-breath;And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared our iron six-pounder,Hurling death!Guy Humphreys McMaster.

Then with eyes to the front all,And guns horizontal,Stood our sires;And the balls whistled deadly,And in streams flashing redlyBlazed the fires;As the roarOn the shore,Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green sodded acresOf the plain;And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gunpowder,Cracking amain!

Now like smiths at their forgesWorked the red Saint George'sCannoniers,And the "villainous saltpetre"Rung a fierce, discordant metre'Round their ears;As the swiftStorm-drift,With hot, sweeping anger, came the Horse Guards' clangorOn our flanks;And higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned fireThrough the ranks!

Then the old-fashioned ColonelGalloped through the white infernalPowder cloud;His broad-sword was swinging,And his brazen throat was ringingTrumpet loud;Then the blueBullets flew,And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leadenRifle-breath;And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared our iron six-pounder,Hurling death!

Guy Humphreys McMaster.

When Freedom from her mountain heightUnfurled her standard to the air,She tore the azure robe of night,And set the stars of glory there.She mingled with its gorgeous dyesThe milky baldric of the skies,And striped its pure, celestial white,With streakings of the morning light;Then from his mansion in the sunShe called her eagle bearer down,And gave into his mighty handThe symbol of her chosen land.* * * *Flag of the free heart's hope and home!By angel hands to valor given;Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,And all thy hues were born in heaven.Forever float that standard sheet!Where breathes the foe but falls before us,With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us!Joseph Rodman Drake.

* * * *

Flag of the free heart's hope and home!By angel hands to valor given;Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,And all thy hues were born in heaven.Forever float that standard sheet!Where breathes the foe but falls before us,With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us!

Joseph Rodman Drake.

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!Long has it waved on high,And many an eye has danced to seeThat banner in the sky;Beneath it rung the battle shout,And burst the cannon's roar;—The meteor of the ocean airShall sweep the clouds no more.Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,Where knelt the vanquished foe,When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,And waves were white below,No more shall feel the victor's tread,Or know the conquered knee;The harpies of the shore shall pluckThe eagle of the sea!Oh, better that her shattered hulkShould sink beneath the wave;Her thunders shook the mighty deep,And there should be her grave:Nail to the mast her holy flag,Set every threadbare sail,And give her to the god of storms,The lightning and the gale!Oliver Wendell Holmes.

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,Where knelt the vanquished foe,When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,And waves were white below,No more shall feel the victor's tread,Or know the conquered knee;The harpies of the shore shall pluckThe eagle of the sea!

Oh, better that her shattered hulkShould sink beneath the wave;Her thunders shook the mighty deep,And there should be her grave:Nail to the mast her holy flag,Set every threadbare sail,And give her to the god of storms,The lightning and the gale!

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

Alas! for them, their day is o'er,Their fires are out on hill and shore;No more for them the wild deer bounds,The plough is on their hunting grounds;The pale man's axe rings through their woods,The pale man's sail skims o'er their floods;Their pleasant springs are dry;Their children,—look, by power opprest,Beyond the mountains of the west,Their children go to die.Charles Sprague.

Charles Sprague.

What great yoked brutes with briskets low;With wrinkled necks like buffalo,With round, brown, liquid, pleading eyes,That turned so slow and sad to you,That shone like love's eyes soft with tears,That seemed to plead, and make replies,The while they bowed their necks and drewThe creaking load; and looked at you.Their sable briskets swept the ground,Their cloven feet kept solemn sound.Two sullen bullocks led the line,Their great eyes shining bright like wine;Two sullen captive kings were they,That had in time held herds at bay,And even now they crushed the sodWith stolid sense of majesty,And stately stepped and stately trod,As if 't were something still to beKings even in captivity.Joaquin Miller.

Two sullen bullocks led the line,Their great eyes shining bright like wine;Two sullen captive kings were they,That had in time held herds at bay,And even now they crushed the sodWith stolid sense of majesty,And stately stepped and stately trod,As if 't were something still to beKings even in captivity.

Joaquin Miller.

[21]From "The Complete Poetical Works of Joaquin Miller" (copyrighted). By permission of the publishers. The Whitaker-Ray Company, San Francisco.

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,Here once the embattled farmers stood,And fired the shot heard round the world.The foe long since in silence slept;Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;And Time the ruined bridge has sweptDown the dark stream which seaward creeps.On the green bank, by this soft stream,We set to-day a votive stone;That memory may her dead redeem,When, like our sires, our sons are gone.Spirit, that made those heroes dareTo die, and leave their children free,Bid Time and Nature gently spareThe shaft we raise to them and thee.Ralph Waldo Emerson.

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,Here once the embattled farmers stood,And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;And Time the ruined bridge has sweptDown the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On the green bank, by this soft stream,We set to-day a votive stone;That memory may her dead redeem,When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dareTo die, and leave their children free,Bid Time and Nature gently spareThe shaft we raise to them and thee.

Ralph Waldo Emerson.

O tenderly the haughty dayFills his blue urn with fire;One morn is in the mighty heaven,And one in our desire.The cannon booms from town to town,Our pulses beat not less,The joy-bells chime their tidings down,Which children's voices bless.For He that flung the broad blue foldO'er-mantling land and sea,One third part of the sky unrolledFor the banner of the free.The men are ripe of Saxon kindTo build an equal state,—To take the statute from the mindAnd make of duty fate.United States! the ages plead,—Present and Past in under-song,—Go put your creed into your deed,Nor speak with double tongue.For sea and land don't understand,Nor skies without a frownSee rights for which the one hand fightsBy the other cloven down.Be just at home; then write your scrollOf honor o'er the sea,And bid the broad Atlantic roll,A ferry of the free.And henceforth there shall be no chain,Save underneath the seaThe wires shall murmur through the mainSweet songs of liberty.The conscious stars accord above,The waters wild below,And under, through the cable wove,Her fiery errands go.For He that worketh high and wise,Nor pauses in His plan,Will take the sun out of the skies,Ere freedom out of man.Ralph Waldo Emerson.

O tenderly the haughty dayFills his blue urn with fire;One morn is in the mighty heaven,And one in our desire.

The cannon booms from town to town,Our pulses beat not less,The joy-bells chime their tidings down,Which children's voices bless.

For He that flung the broad blue foldO'er-mantling land and sea,One third part of the sky unrolledFor the banner of the free.

The men are ripe of Saxon kindTo build an equal state,—To take the statute from the mindAnd make of duty fate.

United States! the ages plead,—Present and Past in under-song,—Go put your creed into your deed,Nor speak with double tongue.

For sea and land don't understand,Nor skies without a frownSee rights for which the one hand fightsBy the other cloven down.

Be just at home; then write your scrollOf honor o'er the sea,And bid the broad Atlantic roll,A ferry of the free.

And henceforth there shall be no chain,Save underneath the seaThe wires shall murmur through the mainSweet songs of liberty.

The conscious stars accord above,The waters wild below,And under, through the cable wove,Her fiery errands go.

For He that worketh high and wise,Nor pauses in His plan,Will take the sun out of the skies,Ere freedom out of man.

Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Is true Freedom but to breakFetters for our own dear sake,And, with leathern hearts, forgetThat we owe mankind a debt?No! true freedom is to shareAll the chains our brothers wear,And, with heart and hand, to beEarnest to make others free!They are slaves who fear to speakFor the fallen and the weak;They are slaves who will not chooseHatred, scoffing, and abuse,Rather than in silence shrinkFrom the truth they needs must think;They are slaves who dare not beIn the right with two or three.James Russell Lowell.

They are slaves who fear to speakFor the fallen and the weak;They are slaves who will not chooseHatred, scoffing, and abuse,Rather than in silence shrinkFrom the truth they needs must think;They are slaves who dare not beIn the right with two or three.

James Russell Lowell.

This man whose homely face you look upon,Was one of nature's masterful, great men;Born with strong arms, that unfought battles won;Direct of speech, and cunning with the pen.Chosen for large designs, he had the artOf winning with his humor, and he wentStraight to his mark, which was the human heart;Wise, too, for what he could not break he bent.Upon his back a more than Atlas-load,The burden of the Commonwealth, was laid;He stooped, and rose up to it, though the roadShot suddenly downwards, not a whit dismayed.Hold, warriors, councillors, kings! All now give placeTo this dear benefactor of the race.Richard Henry Stoddard.

Richard Henry Stoddard.

When the Norn-Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour,Greatening and darkening as it hurried on,She bent the strenuous Heavens 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;Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff.It was a stuff to wear for centuries,A man that matched the mountains and compelledThe stars to look our way and honor us.The color of the ground was in him, the red Earth,The tang and odor of the primal things,The rectitude and patience of the rocks;The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn;The courage of the bird that dares the sea;The justice of the rain that loves all leaves;The pity of the snow that hides all scars;The loving kindness of the wayside well;The tolerance and equity of lightThat gives as freely to the shrinking weedAs to the great oak flaring to the wind—To the grave's low hill as to the MatterhornThat shoulders out the sky.And so he came,From prairie cabin to the Capitol,One fair ideal led our chieftain on,Forevermore he burned to do his deedWith 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 step of earthquake shook the house,Wrenching the rafters from their ancient hold,He held the ridgepole up and spiked againThe 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 downAs when a kingly cedar green with boughsGoes down with a great shout upon the hills.Edwin Markham.

The color of the ground was in him, the red Earth,The tang and odor of the primal things,The rectitude and patience of the rocks;The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn;The courage of the bird that dares the sea;The justice of the rain that loves all leaves;The pity of the snow that hides all scars;The loving kindness of the wayside well;The tolerance and equity of lightThat gives as freely to the shrinking weedAs to the great oak flaring to the wind—To the grave's low hill as to the MatterhornThat shoulders out the sky.

And so he came,From prairie cabin to the Capitol,One fair ideal led our chieftain on,Forevermore he burned to do his deedWith 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 step of earthquake shook the house,Wrenching the rafters from their ancient hold,He held the ridgepole up and spiked againThe 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 downAs when a kingly cedar green with boughsGoes down with a great shout upon the hills.

Edwin Markham.

Dead is the roll of the drums,And the distant thunders die,They fade in the far-off sky;And a lovely summer comes,Like the smile of Him on high.* * * *How the tall white daisies grow,Where the grim artillery rolled!(Was it only a moon ago?It seems a century old,)—And the bee hums in the clover,As the pleasant June comes on;Aye, the wars are all over,—But our good Father is gone.There was tumbling of traitor fort,Flaming of traitor fleet—Lighting of city and port,Clasping in square and street.There was thunder of mine and gun,Cheering by mast and tent,—When—his dread work all done,—And his high fame full won—Died the Good President.* * * *And our boys had fondly thought,To-day, in marching by,From the ground so dearly bought,And the fields so bravely fought,To have met their Father's eye.But they may not see him in placeNor their ranks be seen of him;We look for the well-known face,And the splendor is strangely dim.Perished?—who was it saidOur Leader had passed away?Dead? Our President dead?He has not died for a day!We mourn for a little breathSuch as, late or soon, dust yields;But the Dark Flower of DeathBlooms in the fadeless fields.We looked on a cold, still brow,But Lincoln could yet survive;He never was more alive,Never nearer than now.For the pleasant season found him,Guarded by faithful hands,In the fairest of Summer Lands;With his own brave Staff around him,There our President stands.There they are all at his side,The noble hearts and true,That did all men might do—Then slept, with their swords, and died.* * * *Henry Howard Brownell.

Dead is the roll of the drums,And the distant thunders die,They fade in the far-off sky;And a lovely summer comes,Like the smile of Him on high.

* * * *

How the tall white daisies grow,Where the grim artillery rolled!(Was it only a moon ago?It seems a century old,)—

And the bee hums in the clover,As the pleasant June comes on;Aye, the wars are all over,—But our good Father is gone.

There was tumbling of traitor fort,Flaming of traitor fleet—Lighting of city and port,Clasping in square and street.

There was thunder of mine and gun,Cheering by mast and tent,—When—his dread work all done,—And his high fame full won—Died the Good President.

* * * *

And our boys had fondly thought,To-day, in marching by,From the ground so dearly bought,And the fields so bravely fought,To have met their Father's eye.

But they may not see him in placeNor their ranks be seen of him;We look for the well-known face,And the splendor is strangely dim.

Perished?—who was it saidOur Leader had passed away?Dead? Our President dead?He has not died for a day!

We mourn for a little breathSuch as, late or soon, dust yields;But the Dark Flower of DeathBlooms in the fadeless fields.

We looked on a cold, still brow,But Lincoln could yet survive;He never was more alive,Never nearer than now.

For the pleasant season found him,Guarded by faithful hands,In the fairest of Summer Lands;With his own brave Staff around him,There our President stands.

There they are all at his side,The noble hearts and true,That did all men might do—Then slept, with their swords, and died.

* * * *

Henry Howard Brownell.

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;But O heart! heart! heart!O the bleeding drops of red,Where on the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;Here, Captain! dear father!This arm beneath your head!It is some dream that on the deck,You've fallen cold and dead.My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;Exult, O shores! and ring, O bells!But I with mournful tread,Walk the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.Walt Whitman.

But O heart! heart! heart!O the bleeding drops of red,Where on the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;Here, Captain! dear father!This arm beneath your head!It is some dream that on the deck,You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

Exult, O shores! and ring, O bells!But I with mournful tread,Walk the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.

Walt Whitman.

Hats off!Along the street there comesA blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums,A flash of color beneath the sky:Hats off!The flag is passing by!Blue and crimson and white it shines,Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines.Hats off!The colors before us fly;But more than the flag is passing by.Sea-fights and land-fights, grim and great,Fought to make and to save the State:Weary marches and sinking ships;Cheers of victory on dying lips;Days of plenty and years of peace;March of a strong land's swift increase;Equal justice, right and law,Stately honor and reverend awe;Sign of a nation, great and strongTo ward her people from foreign wrong:Pride and glory and honor,—allLive in the colors to stand or fall.Hats off!Along the street there comesA blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums;And loyal hearts are beating high:Hats off!The flag is passing by!Henry Holcomb Bennett.

Hats off!Along the street there comesA blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums,A flash of color beneath the sky:Hats off!The flag is passing by!

Blue and crimson and white it shines,Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines.Hats off!The colors before us fly;But more than the flag is passing by.

Sea-fights and land-fights, grim and great,Fought to make and to save the State:Weary marches and sinking ships;Cheers of victory on dying lips;

Days of plenty and years of peace;March of a strong land's swift increase;Equal justice, right and law,Stately honor and reverend awe;

Sign of a nation, great and strongTo ward her people from foreign wrong:Pride and glory and honor,—allLive in the colors to stand or fall.

Hats off!Along the street there comesA blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums;And loyal hearts are beating high:Hats off!The flag is passing by!

Henry Holcomb Bennett.

Dark as the clouds of even,Ranked in the western heaven,Waiting the breath that liftsAll the dead mass, and driftsTempest and falling brandOver a ruined land,—So still and orderly,Arm to arm, knee to knee,Waiting the great event,Stands the black regiment.Down the long dusky lineTeeth gleam, and eyeballs shine;And the bright bayonet,Bristling and firmly set,Flashed with a purpose grand,Long ere the sharp commandOf the fierce rolling drumTold them their time had come,Told them what work was sentFor the black regiment."Now!" the flag-sergeant cried,"Though death and hell betide,Let the whole nation seeIf we are fit to beFree in this land; or boundDown, like the whining hound,—Bound with red stripes of painIn our cold chains again!"Oh, what a shout there wentFrom the black regiment!"Charge!" trump and drum awoke;Onward the bondsmen broke;Bayonet and sabre-strokeVainly opposed their rush.Through the wild battle's crush,With but one thought aflush,Driving their lords like chaff,In the gun's mouth they laugh;Or at the slippery brands,Leaping with open hands,Down they tear man and horse,Down in their awful course;Trampling with bloody heelOver the crushing steel,—All their eyes forward bent,Rushed the black regiment."Freedom!" their battle-cry,—"Freedom! or leave to die!"Ah, and they meant the word!Not as with us 'tis heard,—Not a mere party shout;They gave their spirits out,Trusting the end to God,And on the gory sodRolled in triumphant blood.Glad to strike one free blow,Whether for weal or woe;Glad to breathe one free breath,Though on the lips of death;Praying—alas, in vain!—That they might fall again,So they could once more seeThat burst to liberty!This was what "freedom" lentTo the black regiment.Hundreds on hundreds fell;But they are resting well;Scourges, and shackles strong,Never shall do them wrong.Oh, to the living few,Soldiers, be just and true!Hail them as comrades tried;Fight with them side by side;Never, in field or tent,Scorn the black regiment!George Henry Boker.

Down the long dusky lineTeeth gleam, and eyeballs shine;And the bright bayonet,Bristling and firmly set,Flashed with a purpose grand,Long ere the sharp commandOf the fierce rolling drumTold them their time had come,Told them what work was sentFor the black regiment.

"Now!" the flag-sergeant cried,"Though death and hell betide,Let the whole nation seeIf we are fit to beFree in this land; or boundDown, like the whining hound,—Bound with red stripes of painIn our cold chains again!"Oh, what a shout there wentFrom the black regiment!

"Charge!" trump and drum awoke;Onward the bondsmen broke;Bayonet and sabre-strokeVainly opposed their rush.Through the wild battle's crush,With but one thought aflush,Driving their lords like chaff,In the gun's mouth they laugh;Or at the slippery brands,Leaping with open hands,Down they tear man and horse,Down in their awful course;Trampling with bloody heelOver the crushing steel,—All their eyes forward bent,Rushed the black regiment.

"Freedom!" their battle-cry,—"Freedom! or leave to die!"Ah, and they meant the word!Not as with us 'tis heard,—Not a mere party shout;They gave their spirits out,Trusting the end to God,And on the gory sodRolled in triumphant blood.Glad to strike one free blow,Whether for weal or woe;Glad to breathe one free breath,Though on the lips of death;Praying—alas, in vain!—That they might fall again,So they could once more seeThat burst to liberty!This was what "freedom" lentTo the black regiment.

Hundreds on hundreds fell;But they are resting well;Scourges, and shackles strong,Never shall do them wrong.Oh, to the living few,Soldiers, be just and true!Hail them as comrades tried;Fight with them side by side;Never, in field or tent,Scorn the black regiment!

George Henry Boker.

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