Classic Poem

Bright on the sparkling sod to-day
The youthful summer gleams;
The roses in the south wind play,
The slumberous woodland dreams:
In golden light, 'neath clouds of fleece,
'Mid bird-songs wild and free,
The blue Potomac flows in peace,
Down to the peaceful sea.

No echo from the stormy past
Alarms the placid vale, —
Nor cannon roar, nor trumpet blast,
Nor shattered soldier's wail:
There's nothing left to mark the strife,
The triumph or the pain,
Where Nature to her general life
Takes back our lives again.

Yet, in your vision, evermore,
Beneath affrighted skies,
With crash of sound, with reek of gore,
The martial pageants rise:
Audacious banners rend the air,
Dark steeds of battle neigh,
And frantic through the sulphurous glare
Raves on the crimson fray!

Not time, nor chance, nor change can drown
Your memories proud and high,
Nor pluck your star of conquest down
From glory's deathless sky!
For evermore your fame shall bide —
Your valor tried and true;
And that which makes your country's pride
May well be pride to you!

Forever in the soldier's thought
The soldier's life returns, —
Or where the trampled fields are fought,
Or where the camp-fire burns.
For him the pomp of morning brings
A thrill none else can know;
For him night waves her sable wings
O'er many a nameless woe.

How often, face to face with death,
In stern suspense he stood,
While Nature seem'd to hold its breath
Within the ambushed wood!
Again he sees the silent hills,
With danger's menace grim;
And, darkly, all the shuddering rills
Run red with blood for him.

For him the cruel sun of noon
Glares on a bristling plain;
For him the cold, disdainful moon
Lights meadows rough with slain:
There's death in every sight he sees,
In every sound he hears;
And sunset hush and evening breeze
Are sad with prisoned tears.

Again, worn out in fevered march,
He sinks beside the track;
Again, beneath night's lonely arch,
His dreams of home come back;
In morning wind the roses shake
Around his cottage door,
And little feet of children make
Their music on the floor.

The tones that nevermore on earth
Can bid his pulses leap
Ring out again, in careless mirth,
Across the vales of sleep;
And where, in horrent splendor, roll
The waves of vict'ry's tide,
The chosen comrades of his soul
Are glorious at his side!

Forget! the arm may lose its might,
The tired heart beat low,
The sun from heaven blot out his light,
The west wind cease to blow;
But, while one spark of life is warm
Within this mould of clay,
His soul will revel in the storm
Of that tremendous day!

On mountain slope, in lonely glen,
By Fate's divine command,
The blood of those devoted men
Has sanctified the land!
The funeral moss — but not in grief —
Waves o'er their hallowed rest;
For not in grief the laurel leaf
Drops on the hero's breast!

Tears for the slave, when Heaven's gift
Of all that man can be
Wastes, like the shattered spars that drift
Upon the unknown sea!
Tears when the craven sinks at last, —
No deed of valor done;
But no tears for the soul that past
When honor's fight was won!

He takes the hand of heavenly fate,
Who lives and dies for truth!
For him the holy angels wait,
In realms of endless youth!
The grass upon his grave is green
With everlasting bloom;
And love and blessing make the sheen
Of glory round his tomb!

Mourn not for them, beloved and gone,
The cause they died to save
Rears its eternal corner-stone
Upon the martyr's grave,
Where, safe from every ill, they pass
To slumber sweet and low,
'Neath requiems of the murmuring grass
And dirges of the snow.

That sunset wafts its holiest kiss
Through evening's gathering shades;
That beauty breaks the heart with bliss
The hour before it fades;
That music seems to merge with heaven
Just when its echo dies,
Is Nature's sacred promise given
Of life beyond the skies!

Mourn not! in life and death they teach
This thought, this truth, sublime:
There's no man free, except he reach
Beyond the verge of time!
So, beckoning up the starry slope,
They bid our souls to live,
And, flooding all the world with hope,
Have taught us to forgive.

No soldier spurns a fallen foe!
No hate of humankind
Can darken down the generous glow
That fires the patriot mind!
But love shall make the vanquished strong,
And justice lift the ban,
Where right no more can bend to wrong,
Nor man be slave to man!

So from their silent graves they speak;
So speaks that silent scene, —
Where now the violet blossoms meek,
And all the fields are green.
There wood and stream and flower and bird
A pure content declare;
And where the voice of war was heard
Is heard the voice of prayer:

Once more in brother-like accord
Our alien'd hearts unite;
And clasp, across the broken sword,
The hands that used to smite!
And since beside Potomac's wave
There's nothing left but peace,
Be filled at last the open grave,
And let the sorrow cease!

Sweet from the pitying northern pines
Their loving whisper flows;
And sweetly, where the orange shines,
The palm-tree woos the rose;
Ah, let that tender music run
O'er all the years to be;
And Thy great blessing make us one, —
And make us one with Thee!