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4. PART IV

SHERIDAN

I

Quietly, like a child
That sinks in slumber mild,
No pain or troubled thought his well-earned peace to mar,
Sank into endless rest our thunderbolt of war.

II

Tho' his the power to smite
Quick as the lightning's light,—
His single arm an army, his very name a host,—
Not his the love of blood, the warrior's cruel boast.
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III

But in the battle's flame
How glorious he came!—
Even like a white-combed wave that breaks and tears the shore,
While wreck lies strewn behind, and terror flies before.

IV

'T was he,—his voice, his might,—
Could stay the panic-flight,
Alone shame back the headlong, many leagued retreat,
And turn to evening triumph morning's foul defeat.

V

He was our modern Mars;
Yet firm his faith that wars
Ere long would cease to vex the sad, ensanguined earth,
And peace forever reign, as at Christ's holy birth.

VI

Blest land, in whose dark hour
Arise to loftiest power
No dazzlers of the sword to play the tyrant's part,
But patriot-soldiers, true and pure and high of heart!

VII

Of such our chief of all;
And he who broke the wall
Of civil strife in twain, no more to build or mend;
And he who hath this day made Death his faithful friend.

VIII

And now above his tomb
From out the eternal gloom
“Welcome!” his chieftain's voice sounds o'er the cannon's knell;
And of the three one only stays to say “Farewell!”
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SHERMAN

I

Glory and honor and fame and everlasting laudation
For our captains who loved not war, but fought for the life of the nation;
Who knew that, in all the land, one slave meant strife, not peace;
Who fought for freedom, not glory; made war that war might cease.

II

Glory and honor and fame; the beating of muffled drums;
The wailing funeral dirge, as the flag-wrapt coffin comes.
Fame and honor and glory, and joy for a noble soul;
For a full and splendid life, and laureled rest at the goal.

III

Glory and honor and fame; the pomp that a soldier prizes;
The league-long waving line as the marching falls and rises;
Rumbling of caissons and guns; the clatter of horses' feet,
And a million awe-struck faces far down the waiting street.

IV

But better than martial woe, and the pageant of civic sorrow;
Better than praise of to-day, or the statue we build to-morrow;
Better than honor and glory, and History's iron pen,
Was the thought of duty done and the love of his fellowmen.
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PRO PATRIA

IN MEMORY OF A FAITHFUL CHAPLAIN

I

Erewhile I sang the praise of them whose lustrous names
Flashed in war's dreadful flames;
Who rose in glory, and in splendor, and in might
To fame's sequestered hight.

II

Honor to all, for each his honors meekly carried,
Nor e'er the conquered harried;
All honor, for they sought alone to serve the state—
Not merely to be great.

III

Yes, while the glorious past our grateful memory craves,
And while yon bright flag waves,
Lincoln, Grant, Sherman, Sheridan, the peerless four,
Shall live for evermore;

IV

Shall shine the eternal stars of stern and loyal love,
All other stars above;
The imperial nation they made one, at last, and free,
Their monument shall be.

V

Ah, yes! but ne'er may we forget the praise to sound
Of the brave souls that found
Death in the myriad ranks, 'mid blood, and groans, and stenches—
Tombs in the abhorrèd trenches.
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VI

Comrades! To-day a tear-wet garland I would bring—
But one song let me sing,
For one sole hero of my heart and desolate home;
Come with me, Comrades, come!

VII

Bring your glad flowers, your flags, for this one humble grave;
For, Soldiers, he was brave!
Tho' fell not he before the cannon's thunderous breath,
Yet noble was his death.

VIII

True soldier of his country and the sacred cross—
He counted gain, not loss,
Perils and nameless horrors of the embattled field,
While he had help to yield.

IX

But not where 'mid wild cheers the awful battle broke,—
A hell of fire and smoke,—
He to heroic death went forth with soul elate;
Harder his lonely fate.

X

There in the pest-house died he; stricken he fearless fell,
Knowing that all was well;
The high, mysterious Power whereof mankind has dreamed
To him not distant seemed.

XI

Yet life to him was O, most dear,—home, children, wife,—
But, dearer still than life,
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Duty—that passion of the soul which from the sod
Alone lifts man to God.

XII

So nobly past this unknown hero of the war;
And heroes, near and far,
Sleep now in graves like his unfamed in song or story—
But theirs is more than glory!
 

Chaplain William Henry Gilder, of the 40th New York Volunteers, died at Brandy Station, Virginia, in April, 1864, of smallpox caught while in attendance upon the regimental hospital.

TO THE SPIRIT OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN

(REUNION AT GETTYSBURG TWENTY-FIVE YEARS AFTER THE BATTLE)

Shade of our greatest, O look down to-day!
Here the long, dread midsummer battle roared,
And brother in brother plunged the accursèd sword;—
Here foe meets foe once more in proud array,
Yet not as once to harry and to slay,
But to strike hands, and with sublime accord
Weep tears heroic for the souls that soared
Quick from earth's carnage to the starry way.
Each fought for what he deemed the people's good,
And proved his bravery by his offered life,
And sealed his honor with his outpoured blood;
But the Eternal did direct the strife,
And on this sacred field one patriot host
Now calls thee father—dear, majestic ghost!

FAILURE AND SUCCESS

(G. C., 1888)

He fails who climbs to power and place
Up the pathway of disgrace.
He fails not who makes truth his cause,
Nor bends to win the crowd's applause.
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He fails not, he who stakes his all
Upon the right, and dares to fall;—
What tho' the living bless or blame,
For him the long success of fame.

J. R. L.

ON HIS BIRTHDAY

Navies nor armies can exalt the state;
Millions of men, nor coinèd wealth untold;
Down to the pit may sink a land of gold;
But one great name can make a country great.

NAPOLEON

A soul inhuman? No, but human all,
If human is each passion man has known:
Scorn, hate, and love; the lust of empire, grown
To such a hight as did the world appall;—
If the same human soul may soar and crawl
As soared his and as crawled; if to be shown
The utmost heaven and hell; if to atone
For power consummate by colossal fall;—
If human 't is to see friend, partizan,
Turn, dastardly, the imperial hand to tear
That fed them; if through gnawing years to plan
Vengeance, and space to breathe the unfettered air—
No alien from his kind but very man
Slow perished on that island of despair.

THE WHITE CZAR'S PEOPLE

PART I

The White Czar's people cry:
“Thou God of the heat and the cold,
Of storm and of lightning,
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Of darkness, and dawn's red brightening;
Hold, Lord God, hold,
Hold Thy hand lest we curse Thee and die.”
The White Czar's people pray:
“Thou God of the South and the North,
We are crusht, we are bleeding;
'T is Christ, 't is Thy Son interceding;
Forth, Lord, come forth!
Bid the slayer no longer slay.”
The White Czar's people call
Aloud to the skies of lead:
“We are slaves, not freemen;
Ourselves, our children, our women—
Dead, we are dead,
Tho' we breathe, we are dead men all.
“Blame not if we misprize Thee
Who can, but will not draw near.
'T is Thou who hast made us—
Not Thou, dread God, to upbraid us.
Hear, Lord God, hear!
Lest we whom Thou madest despise Thee.”

PART II

Then answered the Most High God,
Lord of the heat and the cold,
Of storm and of lightning,
Of darkness, and dawn's red brightening:
“Bold, yea, too bold,
Whom I wrought from the air and the clod!
“Hast thou forgotten from me
Are those ears so quick to hear
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The passion and anguish
Of your sisters, your children who languish
Near? Ah, not near—
Far off by the uttermost sea!
“Who gave ye your brains to plan—
Your hearts to suffer and bleed?
Why call ye on heaven—
'T is the earth that to you is given!
Plead, ye may plead,
But for man I work through man.
“Who gave ye a voice to utter
Your tale to the wind and the sea?
One word well spoken
And the iron gates are broken!
From me, yea, from me
The word that ye will not mutter.
“I love not murder but ruth.
Begone from my sight ye who take
The knife of the coward—
Even ye who by heaven were dowered!
Wake ye, O wake,
And strike with the sword of Truth!
“Fear ye lest I misprize ye—
I who fashioned not brutes, but men.
After the lightning
And darkness—the dawn's red brightening!
Men! Be ye men!
Lest I who made ye despise ye!”
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PART III

(January 22, 1905)
The great word is uttered, at last!
White Czar! O, where hast thou fled?
Thy children, heart-broken,
To thee their sorrows have spoken!
To thee it is said—
That Word on the wings of the blast!
For the word is their fearful cry,
And the word is their innocent blood.
O, red is the chalice
Lifted up to thy empty palace!
Blood, crimson blood,
On the snows where the murdered lie!
Their shed blood is the word! It is winning
Its way swift from zone unto zone;
Through the world it has thrilled
And the heart of the nations stilled.
Alone, thou alone!
Art thou deaf to the voice and the meaning?
Lo, it swells like the sound of the sea.
Dull monarch! yet, yet, shalt thou hear it.
For, once 'neath the sun
By the brave it is spoken—all's done!
Hear it—and fear it;
For “Freedom” it cries, “We are free!”

CHARLESTON

1886
Is this the price of beauty! Fairest, thou,
Of all the cities of the sunrise sea,
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Yet thrice art stricken. First, war harried thee;
Then the dread circling tempest drove its plow
Right through thy palaces; and now, O now!
A sound of terror, and thy children flee
Into the night and death. O Deity!
Thou God of war and whirlwind, whose dark brow,
Frowning, makes tremble sea and solid land!
These are Thy creatures who to heaven cry
While hell roars 'neath them, and its portals ope;
To Thee they call,—O Thou who bidst them die,
Who hast forgotten to withhold Thy hand,—
For thou, Destroyer, art man's only Hope!
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