What time our battle instincts stir, Who sowed his savage epoch thick Coeur-de-Leons on every field, Through whose dear helping stands revealed Compassed by whose assuring loves, Our comrades dared and died As blithely as a bridegroom moves To meet his waiting bride. Though tears be salt, and wormwood still God's heart is tender, and He will A continent of hopeless men Grew rich in boundless hope. Renown stands mute beside the graves But not the less the darkness flames Beneath the outward havoc, they Athwart the bloody horizon They marked God's blazing sword, And heard His dreadful thunders run Shield-bearers of the Sovran Truth! Her consecrated beads. You thrill us with the calms which flow And by your straight tall lives we know RICHARD REALF. A DIRGE. Low lies in dust the honored head, Slowly we bear them to the dead, And lay them down without a word. What is there to be said or done? Their race is run, their crowns are won, Cut off by fate before their prime Could harvest half the golden years, Would they were here, or we were there, RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. LINES FROM "COMMEMORATION ODE." [Recited at the Harvard Commemoration, July 21, 1865.] WE sit here in the Promised Land That flows with Freedom's honey and milk; But 'twas they won it, sword in hand, Making the nettle danger soft for us as silk. We welcome back our bravest and our best ;— Ah me! not all! some come not with the rest, Who went forth brave and bright as any here! I strive to mix some gladness with my strain, But the sad strings complain, And will not please the ear: I sweep them for a pæan, but they wane Into a dirge, and die away in pain. In these brave ranks I only see the gaps, Thinking of dear ones whom the dumb turf wraps, Dark to the triumph which they died to gain : Fitlier may others greet the living, For me the past is unforgiving; I with uncovered head Salute the sacred dead, Who went, and who return not.—Say not so! And to the saner mind We rather seem the dead that stayed behind. We feel the orient of their spirit glow, They come transfigured back, Secure from change in their high-hearted ways, Of morn on their white Shields of Expectation! Pure from passion's mixture rude But with far-heard gratitude, Still with heart and voice renewed, To heroes living and dear martyrs dead, The strain should close that consecrates our brave. Lift the heart and lift the head! Lofty be its mood and grave, Through whose heart in such an hour 'Tis no Man we celebrate, By his country's victories great, Till the basest can no longer cower, Feeling his soul spring up divinely tall, Touched but in passing by her mantle-hem. Come back, then, noble pride, for 'tis her dower! How could poet ever tower, If his passions, hopes, and fears, If his triumphs and his tears, Kept not measure with his people? Boom, cannon, boom to all the winds and waves ! Clash out, glad bells, from every rocking steeple! Banners, advance with triumph, bend your staves! And from every mountain-peak Let beacon-fire to answering beacon speak, Katahdin tell Monadnock, Whiteface he, And so leap on in light from sea to sea, Till the glad news be sent Across a kindling continent, Making earth feel more firm and air breathe braver : "Be proud! for she is saved, and all have helped to save her! She that lifts up the manhood of the poor, With room about her hearth for all mankind! No challenge sends she to the elder world, That looked askance and hated; a light scorn Plays o'er her mouth, as round her mighty knees She calls her children back, and waits the morn Of nobler day, enthroned between her subject seas." Bow down, dear Land, for thou hast found release! Thy God, in these distempered days, Hath taught thee the sure wisdom of His ways, And through thine enemies hath wrought thy peace! Bow down in prayer and praise! No poorest in thy borders but may now Lift to the juster skies a man's enfranchised brow. Smoothing thy gold of war-dishevelled hair Freed from wrath's pale eclipse, |