Classic Poem

Bright and keen the flashing swords,
Whose red harvest is the Lord's;
Sharp and swift the leaden sting
Where the whistling bullets sing,
Yet the tempest touched him not
In that hurricane of shot.

Firm as adamantine rock
In the conflict's wildest shock,
Watchful, silent, while the strife
Swept along the ways of life,
Southward faced, and every day
Found him farther on the way,

Where the Mississippi's flood
Washed away the stains of blood,
And where Shiloh's restless pines
Loomed above the tangled vines,
Where Chattanooga's sombre crags
Showed war's blazonry of flags.

And where battle's withering breath
Filled the Wilderness with death;
Onward still his way he bore,
Through the varying stress of war,
Sinking, when this brought the end,
All the foeman in the friend.

Calm amid the storm of wrath,
Never swerving from the path
Where his duty seemed to lead,
Heedful of the Nation's need,
Now, when death has brought him sleep,
All the nations for him weep.

Down the long embattled line
Where the glinting bayonets shine,
Following the muffled drums,
There our silent chieftain comes:
Hushed at last the sound of strife,
Ended all the pain of life.

We who followed where he led,
Follow now with measured tread,
While the banners, drooping low
With their drapery of woe,
In the sad winds slowly wave
By the pathway to his grave.

Death has vanquished him, they say;
But we proudly answer, nay!
Though his eyes have lost their light,
Though his face is cold and white,
In our hearts he lives the same,
And death cannot conquer fame.