By communion of the banner,— Crimson, white, and starry banner,— By the baptism of the banner, Children of one Church are we. Creed nor faction can divide us, Race nor language can divide us Still, whatever fate betide us, Children of the flag are we.



JONATHAN TO JOHN

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

[Sidenote: Jan 6. 1862] This poetic effusion of Mr. Hosea Biglow was preceded by the "Idyl of the Bridge and the Monument," which set forth another side of American feeling at the British words and deeds consequent on the unauthorized capture, by Commodore Wilkes, of the "Trent," conveying to England two Confederate Commissioners.

It don't seem hardly right, John, When both my hands was full, To stump me to a fight, John,— Your cousin, tu, John Bull! Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess We know it now," sez he, "The lion's paw is all the law, Accordin' to J. B., Thet's fit for you an' me!"

You wonder why we're hot, John? Your mark wuz on the guns, The neutral guns, thet shot, John, Our brothers an' our sons: Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess There's human blood," sez he, "By fits an' starts, in Yankee hearts, Though 't may surprise J. B. More 'n it would you an' me."

Ef I turned mad dogs loose, John, On your front-parlor stairs, Would it jest meet your views, John, To wait and sue their heirs? Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, I only guess," sez he, "Thet ef Vattel on his toes fell, 'Twould kind o' rile J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!"

Who made the law thet hurts, John, Heads I win,—ditto tails? "J. B." was on his shirts, John, Onless my memory fails, Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess (I'm good at thet)," sez he, "Thet sauce for goose ain't jest the juice For ganders with J. B., No more than you or me!"

When your rights was our wrongs, John, You didn't stop for fuss,— Britanny's trident prongs, John, Was good 'nough law for us. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, Though physic's good," sez he, "It doesn't foller that he can swaller Prescriptions signed 'J. B.,' Put up by you an' me!"

We own the ocean, tu, John: You mus'n' take it hard, Ef we can't think with you, John, It's jest your own back-yard. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, Ef thet's his claim," sez he, "The fencin'-stuff 'll cost enough To bust up friend J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!"

Why talk so dreffle big, John, Of honor when it meant You didn't care a fig, John, But jest for ten per cent? Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess He's like the rest," sez he: "When all is done, it's number one Thet's nearest to J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!"

We give the critters back, John, Cos Abram thought 'twas right; It warn't your bullyin' clack, John, Provokin' us to fight. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess We've a hard row," sez he, "To hoe jest now; but thet somehow, May happen to J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!"

We ain't so weak an' poor, John, With twenty million people, An' close to every door, John, A school-house an' a steeple. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess It is a fact," sez he, "The surest plan to make a Man Is, think him so, J. B., Ez much ez you or me!"

Our folks believe in Law, John; An' it's for her sake, now, They've left the ax an' saw, John, The anvil an' the plough. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, Ef 'twarn't for law," sez he, "There'd be one shindy from here to Indy, An' thet don't suit J. B. (When 'tain't 'twixt you an' me!)"

We know we've got a cause, John, Thet's honest, just an' true; We thought 'twould win applause, John, Ef nowheres else, from you. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess His love of right," sez he, "Hangs by a rotten fibre o' cotton: There's natur' in J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!"

The South says, "Poor folks down!" John, An, "All men up!" say we,— White, yaller, black, an' brown, John: Now which is your idee? Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, John preaches wal," sez he; "But, sermon thru, an' come to du, Why, there's the old J. B. A crowdin' you an' me!"

Shall it be love, or hate, John? It's you thet's to decide; Ain't your bonds held by Fate, John, Like all the world's beside? Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess Wise men forgive," sez he, "But not forget; an' some time yet Thet truth may strike J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!"

God means to make this land, John, Clear thru, from sea to sea, Believe an' understand, John, The wuth o' bein' free. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, God's price is high," sez he; "But nothin' else than wut He sells Wears long, an' thet J. B. May larn, like you an' me!"



THE CUMBERLAND

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

March 8, 1862 The "Cumberland" was sunk by the iron-clad rebel ram "Merrimac," going down with her colors flying, and firing even as the water rose over the gunwale.

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war; And at times from the fortress across the bay The alarum of drums swept past, Or a bugle blast From the camp on the shore.

Then far away to the south uprose A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of our foes Was steadily steering its course To try the force Of our ribs of oak.

Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, From each open port.

We are not idle, but send her straight Defiance back in a full broadside! As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, Rebounds our heavier hail From each iron scale Of the monster's hide.

"Strike your flag!" the rebel cries, In his arrogant old plantation strain. "Never!" our gallant Morris replies; "It is better to sink than to yield!" And the whole air pealed With the cheers of our men.

Then, like a kraken huge and black, She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp! Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, With a sudden shudder of death, And the cannon's breath For her dying gasp.

Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Still floated our flag at the mainmast head. Lord, how beautiful was Thy day! Every waft of the air Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead.

Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas! Ye are at peace in the troubled stream; Ho! brave land! with hearts like these, Thy flag, that is rent in twain, Shall be one again, And without a seam!



KEARNEY AT SEVEN PINES EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN

[Sidenote: May 31, 1862]

So that soldierly legend is still on its journey,— That story of Kearny who knew not to yield! 'Twas the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, and Birney, Against twenty thousand he rallied the field, Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose highest, Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf oak and pine, Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest,— No charge like Phil Kearny's along the whole line.

When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn, Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our ground, He rode down the length of the withering column, And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a bound; He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of our powder,— His sword waved us on and we answered the sign: Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the louder, "There's the devil's own fun, boys, along the whole line!"

How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his blade brighten In the one hand still left,—and the reins in his teeth! He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten, But a soldier's glance shot from his visor beneath. Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal, Asking where to go in,—through the clearing or pine? "O, anywhere! Forward! 'Tis all the same, Colonel: You'll find lovely fighting along the whole line!"

O, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly, That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried! Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily, The flower of our knighthood, the whole army's pride! Yet we dream that he still,—in that shadowy region Where the dead form their ranks at the wan drummer's sign,— Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion, And the word still is Forward! along the whole line.



DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER

GEORGE H. BOKER

[Sidenote: Sept. 1, 1862] These verses were written in memory of General Philip Kearny, killed at Chantilly after he had ridden out in advance of his men to reconnoitre.

Close his eyes; his work is done! What to him is friend or foeman, Rise of moon, or set of sun, Hand of man, or kiss of woman? Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he can not know: Lay him low!

As man may, he fought his fight, Proved his truth by his endeavor; Let him sleep in solemn night, Sleep forever and forever. Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he can not know: Lay him low!

Fold him in his country's stars, Roll the drum and fire the volley! What to him are all our wars, What but death bemocking folly? Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he can not know: Lay him low!

Leave him to God's watching eye, Trust him to the hand that made him. Mortal love weeps idly by: God alone has power to aid him, Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he can not know: Lay him low!



BARBARA FRIETCHIE

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

[Sidebar: Sept. 6, 1862] These lines were suggested by a newspaper paragraph which lacked foundation in fact.

Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn.

The clustered spires of Frederick stand Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree fruited deep,

Fair as a garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early fall, When Lee marched over the mountain-wall,—

Over the mountains winding down, Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars,

Flapped in the morning wind: the sun Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;

Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down;

In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat left and right He glanced; the old flag met his sight.

"Halt!"—the dust-brown ranks stood fast. "Fire!"—out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;

She leaned far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will.

"Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country's flag," she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came;

The nobler nature within him stirred To life at that woman's deed and word:

"Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog! March on!" he said.

All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet:

All day long that free flag tost Over the heads of the rebel host.

Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.

Honor to her! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!

Peace and order and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law;

And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below in Frederick town!



FREDERICKSBURG

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH

[Sidenote: Dec. 13, 1862]

The increasing moonlight drifts across my bed, And on the churchyard by the road, I know It falls as white and noiselessly as snow. 'Twas such a night two weary summers fled; The stars, as now, were waning overhead. Listen! Again the shrill-lipped bugles blow Where the swift currents of the river flow Past Fredericksburg: far off the heavens are red With sudden conflagration: on yon height, Linstock in hand, the gunners hold their breath: A signal-rocket pierces the dense night, Flings its spent stars upon the town beneath: Hark!—the artillery massing on the right, Hark!—the black squadrons wheeling down to Death!



MUSIC IN CAMP

JOHN R. THOMPSON

[Sidenote: Dec. 15-31, 1862]

Two armies covered hill and plain Where Rappahannock's waters Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain Of battle's recent slaughters.

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents In meads of heavenly azure; And each dread gun of the elements Slept in its hid embrasure.

The breeze so softly blew, it made No forest leaf to quiver, And the smoke of the random cannonade Rolled slowly from the river.

And now where circling hills looked down With cannon grimly planted, O'er listless camp and silent town The golden sunset slanted;

When on the fervid air there came A strain, now rich, now tender, The music seemed itself aflame With day's departing splendor.

A Federal band, which eve and morn Played measures brave and nimble, Had just struck up with flute and horn And lively clash of cymbal.

Down flocked the soldiers to the bank; Till margined by its pebbles, One wooded shore was blue with "Yanks," And one was gray with "Rebels."

Then all was still; and then the band With movements light and tricksy, Made stream and forest, hill and strand, Reverberate with "Dixie."

The conscious stream, with burnished glow, Went proudly o'er its pebbles, But thrilled throughout its deepest flow With yelling of the Rebels.

Again a pause, and then again The trumpet pealed sonorous, And Yankee Doodle was the strain To which the shore gave chorus.

The laughing ripple shoreward flew To kiss the shining pebbles— Loud shrieked the crowding Boys in Blue Defiance to the Rebels.

And yet once more the bugle sang Above the stormy riot; No shout upon the evening rang There reigned a holy quiet.

The sad, lone stream its noiseless tread Spread o'er the glistening pebbles: All silent now the Yankees stood; All silent stood the Rebels:

For each responsive soul had heard That plaintive note's appealing, So deeply "Home, Sweet Home" had stirred The hidden founts of feeling.

Or blue or gray, the soldier sees, As by the wand of fairy, The cottage neath the live-oak trees, The cottage by the prairie.

Or cold or warm, his native skies Bend in their beauty o'er him: Sending the tear-mist in his eyes— The dear ones stand before him.

As fades the iris after rain In April's tearful weather, The vision vanished as the strain And daylight died together.

But memory, waked by music's art Expressed in simplest numbers, Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart, Made light the Rebel's slumbers.

And fair the form of Music shines, That bright, celestial creature, Who still 'mid war's embattled lines Gave this one touch of nature.



KEENAN'S CHARGE

GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP

[Sidenote: May 2, 1863] During the second day of the battle of Chancellorsville, General Pleasonton was trying to get twenty-two guns into a vital position as Stonewall Jackson made a sudden advance. Time had to be bought; so Pleasanton ordered Major Peter Keenan, commanding the Eighth Pennsylvania Cavalry (four hundred strong), to charge the advancing ten thousand of the enemy. An introduction to the poem, setting forth these facts, is omitted.

By the shrouded gleam of the western skies, Brave Keenan looked in Pleasonton's eyes For an instant—clear, and cool, and still; Then, with a smile, he said: "I will."

"Cavalry, charge!" Not a man of them shrank. Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank, Rose joyously, with a willing breath— Rose like a greeting hail to death. Then forward they sprang, and spurred and clashed; Shouted the officers, crimson-sash'd; Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow, In their faded coats of the blue and yellow; And above in the air, with an instinct true, Like a bird of war their pennon flew. With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds, And blades that shine like sunlit reeds, And strong brown faces bravely pale For fear their proud attempt shall fail, Three hundred Pennsylvanians close On twice ten thousand gallant foes.

Line after line the troopers came To the edge of the wood that was ring'd with flame; Rode in and sabred and shot—and fell; Nor came one back his wounds to tell. And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall In the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall, While the circle-stroke of his sabre, swung 'Round his head, like a halo there, luminous hung.

Line after line; ay, whole platoons, Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoons By the maddened horses were onward borne And into the vortex flung, trampled and torn; As Keenan fought with his men, side by side.

So they rode, till there were no more to ride.

But over them, lying there, shattered and mute, What deep echo rolls?—'Tis a death salute From the cannon in place; for, heroes, you braved Your fate not in vain: the army was saved!

Over them now—year following year— Over their graves, the pine-cones fall, And the whip-poor-will chants his spectre-call; But they stir not again: they raise no cheer: They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease, Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace. The rush of their charge is resounding still That saved the army at Chancellorsville.



THE BLACK REGIMENT

GEORGE H. BOKER

[Sidenote: May 27, 1863] "The colored troops fought nobly" was a frequent phrase in war bulletins; never did they better deserve this praise than at Port Hudson.

Dark as the clouds of even, Ranked in the western heaven, Waiting the breath that lifts All the dread mass, and drifts Tempest and falling brand Over 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 line Teeth gleam and eyeballs shine; And the bright bayonet, Bristling and firmly set, Flashed with a purpose grand, Long ere the sharp command Of the fierce rolling drum Told them their time had come, Told them what work was sent For the black regiment.

"Now," the flag-sergeant cried, "Though death and hell betide, Let the whole nation see If we are fit to be Free in this land; or bound Down, like the whining hound,— Bound with red stripes of pain In our old chains again!" O, what a shout there went From the black regiment!

"Charge!" Trump and drum awoke, Onward the bondmen broke; Bayonet and sabre-stroke Vainly opposed their rush. Through the wild battle's crush. With but one thought aflush, Driving their lords like chaff, In the guns' mouths 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 heel Over the crashing 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; Trusted the end to God, And on the gory sod Rolled 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 see That burst to liberty! This was what "freedom" lent To the black regiment.

Hundreds on hundreds fell; But they are resting well; Scourges and shackles strong Never shall do them wrong. O, 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.



JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG

BRET HARTE

[Sidenote: July 1, 2, 3, 1863]

Have you heard the story that gossips tell Of Burns of Gettysburg?—No? Ah, well, Brief is the glory that hero earns, Briefer the story of poor John Burns: He was the fellow who won renown,— The only man who didn't back down When the rebels rode through his native town; But held his own in the fight next day, When all his townsfolk ran away. That was in July, Sixty-three, The very day that General Lee, Flower of Southern chivalry, Baffled and beaten, backward reeled From a stubborn Meade and a barren field. I might tell how but the day before John Burns stood at his cottage door, Looking down the village street, Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine, He heard the low of his gathered kine, And felt their breath with incense sweet Or I might say, when the sunset burned The old farm gable, he thought it turned The milk that fell like a babbling flood Into the milk-pail red as blood! Or how he fancied the hum of bees Were bullets buzzing among the trees. But all such fanciful thoughts as these Were strange to a practical man like Burns, Who minded only his own concerns, Troubled no more by fancies fine Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine,— Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact, Slow to argue, but quick to act. That was the reason, as some folks say, He fought so well on that terrible day.

And it was terrible. On the right Raged for hours the heady fight, Thundered the battery's double bass,— Difficult music for men to face; While on the left—where now the graves Undulate like the living waves That all that day unceasing swept Up to the pits the Rebels kept— Round shot ploughed the upland glades, Sown with bullets, reaped with blades; Shattered fences here and there Tossed their splinters in the air; The very trees were stripped and bare; The barns that once held yellow grain Were heaped with harvests of the slain; The cattle bellowed on the plain, The turkeys screamed with might and main, And brooding barn-fowl left their rest With strange shells bursting in each nest.

Just where the tide of battle turns, Erect and lonely stood old John Burns. How do you think the man was dressed? He wore an ancient long buff vest, Yellow as saffron,—but his best, And, buttoned over his manly breast, Was a bright blue coat, with a rolling collar, And large gilt buttons,—size of a dollar,— With tails that the country-folk called "swaller." He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat, White as the locks on which it sat. Never had such a sight been seen For forty years on the village green, Since old John Burns was a country beau, And went to the "quiltings" long ago.

Close at his elbows all that day, Veterans of the Peninsula, Sunburnt and bearded, charged away; And striplings, downy of lip and chin,— Clerks that the Home Guard mustered in,— Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore, Then at the rifle his right hand bore; And hailed him, from out their youthful lore, With scraps of a slangy repertoire: "How are you, White Hat? Put her through!" "Your head's level!" and "Bully for you!" Called him "Daddy,"—begged he'd disclose The name of the tailor who made his clothes, And what was the value he set on those; While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff, Stood there picking the rebels off,— With his long brown rifle and bell-crown hat, And the swallow-tails they were laughing at.

'Twas but a moment, for that respect Which clothes all courage their voices checked: And something the wildest could understand Spake in the old man's strong right hand, And his corded throat, and the lurking frown Of his eyebrows under his old bell-crown; Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw, In the antique vestments and long white hair, The Past of the Nation in battle there; And some of the soldiers since declare That the gleam of his old white hat afar, Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre, That day was their oriflamme of war.

So raged the battle. You know the rest: How the rebels, beaten and backward pressed, Broke at the final charge, and ran. At which John Burns—a practical man— Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows, And then went back to his bees and cows.

That is the story of old John Burns; This is the moral the reader learns: In fighting the battle, the question's whether You'll show a hat that's white, or a feather!



TWILIGHT ON SUMTER

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD

[Sidenote: Aug. 24, 1863] After the surrender of Major Anderson, the Confederates strengthened the fort; but, in the spring of 1863, the U. S. guns on Morris Island battered it into a shapeless ruin.

Still and dark along the sea Sumter lay; A light was overhead, As from burning cities shed, And the clouds were battle-red, Far away. Not a solitary gun Left to tell the fort had won, Or lost the day! Nothing but the tattered rag Of the drooping Rebel flag, And the sea-birds screaming round it in their play.

How it woke one April morn, Fame shall tell; As from Moultrie, close at hand, And the batteries on the land, Round its faint but fearless band Shot and shell Raining hid the doubtful light; But they fought the hopeless fight Long and well, (Theirs the glory, ours the shame!) Till the walls were wrapt in flame, Then their flag was proudly struck, and Sumter fell.

Now—oh, look at Sumter now, In the gloom! Mark its scarred and shattered walls, (Hark! the ruined rampart falls!) There's a justice that appals In its doom; For this blasted spot of earth Where Rebellion had its birth Is its tomb! And when Sumter sinks at last From the heavens, that shrink aghast, Hell shall rise in grim derision and make room!



THE BAY-FIGHT

HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL

[Sidenote: August 5, 1864] The poet was acting ensign on the staff of Admiral Farragut, when he led his squadron past Forts Morgan and Gaines, and into a victorious fight with the Confederate fleet in the Bay of Mobile. The poem is here somewhat shortened.

Three days through sapphire seas we sailed, The steady Trade blew strong and free, The Northern Light his banners paled, The Ocean Stream our channels wet, We rounded low Canaveral's lee, And passed the isles of emerald set In blue Bahama's turquoise sea.

By reef and shoal obscurely mapped, And hauntings of the gray sea-wolf, The palmy Western Key lay lapped In the warm washing of the Gulf.

But weary to the hearts of all The burning glare, the barren reach Of Santa Rosa's withered beach, And Pensacola's ruined wall.

And weary was the long patrol, The thousand miles of shapeless strand, From Brazos to San Blas that roll Their drifting dunes of desert sand.

Yet, coast-wise as we cruised or lay, The land-breeze still at nightfall bore, By beach and fortress-guarded bay, Sweet odors from the enemy's shore,

Fresh from the forest solitudes, Unchallenged of his sentry lines— The bursting of his cypress buds, And the warm fragrance of his pines.

Ah, never braver bark and crew, Nor bolder Flag a foe to dare. Had left a wake on ocean blue Since Lion-Heart sailed Trenc-le-mer!

But little gain by that dark ground Was ours, save, sometime, freer breath For friend or brother strangely found, 'Scaped from the drear domain of death.

And little venture for the bold, Or laurel for our valiant Chief, Save some blockaded British thief, Full fraught with murder in his hold,

Caught unawares at ebb or flood— Or dull bombardment, day by day, With fort and earth-work, far away, Low couched in sullen leagues of mud.

A weary time,—but to the strong The day at last, as ever, came; And the volcano, laid so long, Leaped forth in thunder and in flame!

"Man your starboard battery!" Kimberly shouted— The ship, with her hearts of oak, Was going, mid roar and smoke, On to victory! None of us doubted— No, not our dying— Farragut's flag was flying!

Gaines growled low on our left, Morgan roared on our right— Before us, gloomy and fell, With breath like the fume of hell, Lay the Dragon of iron shell, Driven at last to the fight!

Ha, old ship! do they thrill, The brave two hundred scars You got in the River-Wars? That were leeched with clamorous skill, (Surgery savage and hard), Splinted with bolt and beam, Probed in scarfing and seam, Rudely linted and tarred With oakum and boiling pitch, And sutured with splice and hitch At the Brooklyn Navy-Yard!

Our lofty spars were down, To bide the battle's frown (Wont of old renown)— But every ship was drest In her bravest and her best, As if for a July day; Sixty flags and three, As we floated up the bay— Every peak and mast-head flew The brave Red, White, and Blue— We were eighteen ships that day.

With hawsers strong and taut, The weaker lashed to port, On we sailed, two by two— That if either a bolt should feel Crash through caldron or wheel, Fin of bronze or sinew of steel, Her mate might bear her through.

Steadily nearing the head, The great Flag-Ship led, Grandest of sights! On her lofty mizzen flew Our Leader's dauntless Blue, That had waved o'er twenty fights— So we went, with the first of the tide, Slowly, mid the roar Of the Rebel guns ashore And the thunder of each full broadside.

Ah, how poor the prate Of statute and state, We once held with these fellows— Here, on the flood's pale-green, Hark how he bellows, Each bluff old Sea-Lawyer! Talk to them, Dahlgren, Parrott, and Sawyer!

On, in the whirling shade Of the cannon's sulphury breath, We drew to the Line of Death That our devilish Foe had laid— Meshed in a horrible net, And baited villainous well, Right in our path were set Three hundred traps of hell!

And there, O sight forlorn! There, while the cannon Hurtled and thundered— (Ah, what ill raven Flapped o'er the ship that morn!)— Caught by the under-death, In the drawing of a breath, Down went dauntless Craven, He and his hundred!

A moment we saw her turret, A little heel she gave, And a thin white spray went o'er her, Like the crest of a breaking wave— In that great iron coffin, The channel for their grave, The fort their monument, (Seen afar in the offing,) Ten fathom deep lie Craven, And the bravest of our brave.

Then, in that deadly track, A little the ships held back, Closing up in their stations— There are minutes that fix the fate Of battles and of nations (Christening the generations,) When valor were all too late, If a moment's doubt be harbored From the main-top, bold and brief, Came the word of our grand old Chief— "Go on!"—'twas all he said— Our helm was put to the starboard, And the Hartford passed ahead.

Ahead lay the Tennessee, On our starboard bow he lay, With his mail-clad consorts three, (The rest had run up the Bay)— There he was, belching flame from his bow, And the steam from his throat's abyss Was a Dragon's maddened hiss— In sooth a most cursed craft!— In a sullen ring at bay By the Middle Ground they lay, Raking us fore and aft.

Trust me, our berth was hot, Ah, wickedly well they shot; How their death-bolts howled and stung! And the water-batteries played With their deadly cannonade Till the air around us rung; So the battle raged and roared— Ah, had you been aboard To have seen the fight we made! How they leaped, the tongues of flame, From the cannon's fiery lip! How the broadsides, deck and frame, Shook the great ship! And how the enemy's shell Came crashing, heavy and oft, Clouds of splinters flying aloft And falling in oaken showers— But ah, the pluck of the crew! Had you stood on that deck of ours You had seen what men may do.

Still, as the fray grew louder, Boldly they worked and well; Steadily came the powder, Steadily came the shell. And if tackle or truck found hurt, Quickly they cleared the wreck; And the dead were laid to port, All a-row, on our deck.

Never a nerve that failed, Never a cheek that paled, Not a tinge of gloom or pallor— There was bold Kentucky's grit, And the old Virginian valor, And the daring Yankee wit.

There were blue eyes from turfy Shannon, There were black orbs from palmy Niger— But there, alongside the cannon, Each man fought like a tiger! A little, once, it looked ill, Our consort began to burn— They quenched the flames with a will, But our men were falling still, And still the fleet was astern.

Right abreast of the Fort In an awful shroud they lay, Broadsides thundering away, And lightning from every port— Scene of glory and dread!

A storm-cloud all aglow With flashes of fiery red— The thunder raging below, And the forest of flags o'erhead!

So grand the hurly and roar, So fiercely their broadsides blazed, The regiments fighting ashore Forgot to fire as they gazed.

There, to silence the Foe, Moving grimly and slow, They loomed in that deadly wreath, Where the darkest batteries frowned Death in the air all round, And the black torpedoes beneath! And now, as we looked ahead, All for'ard, the long white deck Was growing a strange dull red; But soon, as once and agen Fore and aft we sped (The firing to guide or check,) You could hardly choose but tread On the ghastly human wreck, (Dreadful gobbet and shred That a minute ago were men!)

Red, from mainmast to bitts! Red, on bulwark and wale— Red, by combing and hatch— Red, o'er netting and rail!

And ever, with steady con, The ship forged slowly by— And ever the crew fought on, And their cheers rang loud and high.

Grand was the sight to see How by their guns they stood, Right in front of our dead Fighting square abreast— Each brawny arm and chest All spotted with black and red, Chrism of fire and blood!

Worth our watch, dull and sterile, Worth all the weary time— Worth the woe and the peril, To stand in that strait sublime!

Fear? A forgotten form! Death? A dream of the eyes! We were atoms in God's great storm That roared through the angry skies.

One only doubt was ours, One only dread we knew— Could the day that dawned so well Go down for the Darker Powers? Would the fleet get through? And ever the shot and shell Came with the howl of hell, The splinter-clouds rose and fell, And the long line of corpses grew— Would the fleet win through?

They are men that never will fail (How aforetime they've fought!) But Murder may yet prevail— They may sink as Craven sank. Therewith one hard, fierce thought, Burning on heart and lip, Ran like fire through the ship— Fight her, to the last plank!

A dimmer Renown might strike If Death lay square alongside— But the Old Flag has no like, She must fight, whatever betide— When the war is a tale of old, And this day's story is told, They shall hear how the Hartford died!

But as we ranged ahead, And the leading ships worked in, Losing their hope to win, The enemy turned and fled— And one seeks a shallow reach, And another, winged in her flight, Our mate, brave Jouett, brings in— And one, all torn in the fight, Runs for a wreck on the beach, Where her flames soon fire the night.

And the Ram, when well up the Bay, And we looked that our stems should meet, (He had us fair for a prey,) Shifting his helm midway, Sheered off and ran for the fleet; There, without skulking or sham, He fought them, gun for gun, And ever he sought to ram, But could finish never a one.

From the first of the iron shower Till we sent our parting shell, 'Twas just one savage hour Of the roar and the rage of hell.

With the lessening smoke and thunder, Our glasses around we aim— What is that burning yonder? Our Philippi,—aground and in flame!

Below, 'twas still all a-roar, As the ships went by the shore, But the fire of the fort had slacked, (So fierce their volleys had been)— And now, with a mighty din, The whole fleet came grandly in, Though sorely battered and wracked.

So, up the Bay we ran, The Flag to port and ahead, And a pitying rain began To wash the lips of our dead.

A league from the Fort we lay, And deemed that the end must lag; When lo! looking down the Bay, There flaunted the Rebel Rag— The Ram is again under way, And heading dead for the Flag!

Steering up with the stream, Boldly his course, he lay, Though the fleet all answered his fire, And, as he still drew nigher, Ever on bow and beam Our Monitors pounded away— How the Chickasaw hammered away!

Quickly breasting the wave, Eager the prize to win, First of us all the brave Monongahela went in Under full head of steam— Twice she struck him abeam, Till her stem was a sorry work, (She might have run on a crag!) The Lackawanna hit fair, He flung her aside like cork, And still he held for the Flag.

High in the mizzen shroud (Lest the smoke his sight o'erwhelm), Our Admiral's voice rang loud, "Hard-a-starboard your helm! Starboard! and run him down!" Starboard it was—and so, Like a black squall's lifting frown, Our mighty bow bore down On the iron beak of the Foe.

We stood on the deck together, Men that had looked on death In battle and stormy weather— Yet a little we held our breath, When, with the hush of death, The great ships drew together.

Our Captain strode to the bow, Drayton, courtly and wise, Kindly cynic, and wise, (You hardly had known him now,— The flame of fight in his eyes!) His brave heart eager to feel How the oak would tell on the steel!

But, as the space grew short, A little he seemed to shun us, Out peered a form grim and lanky, And a voice yelled: "Hard-a-port! Hard-a-port!—here's the damned Yankee Coming right down on us!"

He sheered, but the ships ran foul; With a gnarring shudder and growl— He gave us a deadly gun; But as he passed in his pride, (Rasping right alongside!) The Old Flag, in thunder tones, Poured in her port broadside, Rattling his iron hide, And cracking his timber bones!

Just then, at speed on the Foe, With her bow all weathered and brown, The great Lackawanna came down, Full tilt, for another blow; We were forging ahead, She reversed—but, for all our pains, Rammed the old Hartford instead, Just for'ard the mizzen-chains!

Ah! how the masts did buckle and bend, And the stout hull ring and reel, As she took us right on end! (Vain were engine and wheel, She was under full steam)— With the roar of a thunder-stroke Her two thousand tons of oak Brought up on us, right abeam!

A wreck, as it looked, we lay— (Rib and plankshear gave way To the stroke of that giant wedge!) Here, after all, we go— The old ship is gone!—ah, no, But cut to the water's edge.

Never mind then—at him again! His flurry now can't last long; He'll never again see land— Try that on him, Marchand! On him again, brave Strong!

Heading square at the hulk, Full on his beam we bore; But the spine of the huge Sea-Hog Lay on the tide like a log, He vomited flame no more.

By this he had found it hot— Half the fleet, in an angry ring, Closed round the hideous Thing, Hammering with solid shot,

And bearing down, bow on bow— He had but a minute to choose; Life or renown?—which now Will the Rebel Admiral lose?

Cruel, haughty, and cold, He ever was strong and bold— Shall he shrink from a wooden stem? He will think of that brave band He sank in the Cumberland— Ay, he will sink like them.

Nothing left but to fight Boldly his last sea-fight! Can he strike? By heaven, 'tis true! Down comes the traitor Blue, And up goes the captive White!

Up went the White! Ah then The hurrahs that, once and agen, Rang from three thousand men All flushed and savage with fight!

Our dead lay cold and stark, But our dying, down in the dark, Answered as best they might— Lifting their poor lost arms, And cheering for God and Right!



SHERIDAN'S RIDE

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ

[Sidenote: Oct. 19, 1864] General Early surprised and routed the Union troops during General Sheridan's absence in Washington. Sheridan hastened to the front, rallied his men, and won a complete victory.

Up from the South at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, Telling the battle was on once more, And Sheridan twenty miles away.

And wider still those billows of war Thundered along the horizon's bar; And louder yet into Winchester rolled The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, Making the blood of the listener cold, As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, And Sheridan twenty miles away.

But there is a road from Winchester town, A good, broad highway leading down; And there, through the flush of the morning light, A steed as black as the steeds of night, Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight, As if he knew the terrible need; He stretched away with his utmost speed; Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay, With Sheridan fifteen miles away.

Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South, The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth; Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. The heart of the steed and the heart of the master Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, Impatient to be where the battle-field calls; Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, With Sheridan only ten miles away.

Under his spurning feet the road Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, And the landscape sped away behind Like an ocean flying before the wind, And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace fire, Swept on, with his wild eye full of ire. But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire; He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, With Sheridan only five miles away.

The first that the general saw were the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops, What was done? what to do? a glance told him both, Then striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, He dashed down the line, mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because The sight of the master compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust, the black charger was gray By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril's play, He seemed to the whole great army to say, "I have brought you Sheridan all the way From Winchester, down to save the day!"

Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan! Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man! And when their statues are placed on high, Under the dome of the Union sky, The American soldiers' Temple of Fame, There with the glorious general's name Be it said, in letters both bold and bright, "Here is the steed that saved the day, By carrying Sheridan into the fight, From Winchester, twenty miles away!"



CRAVEN

HENRY NEWBOLT

[Sidenote: August 5, 1864] In the attack on Mobile Bay the monitor Tecumseh was sunk by a torpedo.

Over the turret, shut in his iron-clad tower, Craven was conning his ship through smoke and flame; Gun to gun he had battered the fort for an hour, Now was the time for a charge to end the game.

There lay the narrowing channel, smooth and grim, A hundred deaths beneath it, and never a sign; There lay the enemy's ships, and sink or swim The flag was flying, and he was head of the line.

The fleet behind was jamming; the monitor hung Beating the stream; the roar for a moment hushed, Craven spoke to the pilot; slow she swung; Again he spoke, and right for the foe she rushed.

Into the narrowing channel, between the shore And the sunk torpedoes lying in treacherous rank; She turned but a yard too short; a muffled roar, A mountainous wave, and she rolled, righted, and sank.

Over the manhole, up in the iron-clad tower, Pilot and Captain met as they turned to fly: The hundredth part of a moment seemed an hour, For one could pass to be saved, and one must die.

They stood like men in a dream: Craven spoke, Spoke as he lived and fought, with a Captain's pride, "After you, Pilot." The pilot woke, Down the ladder he went, and Craven died.

All men praise the deed and the manner, but we— We set it apart from the pride that stoops to the proud, The strength that is supple to serve the strong and free, The grace of the empty hands and promises loud:

Sidney thirsting, a humbler need to slake, Nelson waiting his turn for the surgeon's hand, Lucas crushed with chains for a comrade's sake, Outram coveting right before command:

These were paladins, these were Craven's peers, These with him shall be crowned in story and song, Crowned with the glitter of steel and the glimmer of tears, Princes of courtesy, merciful, proud, and strong.



SHERMAN'S MARCH TO THE SEA

SAMUEL H. M. BYERS

[Sidenote: May 4, 1864, Dec. 21, 1864] After Sherman left Tennessee in May, to the taking of Atlanta September 2, there was hardly a day without its battle; after he left Atlanta he marched to the sea and took Savannah; then he went to Columbia and the backbone of the Rebellion was broken. The poet wrote this while a prisoner at Columbia; and when Sherman arrived there and read it, he attached Adjt. Byers to his staff.

Our camp-fires shone bright on the mountain That frowned on the river below, As we stood by our guns in the morning, And eagerly watched for the foe; When a rider came out of the darkness That hung over mountain and tree, And shouted, "Boys, up and be ready! For Sherman will march to the sea!"

Then cheer upon cheer for bold Sherman Went up from each valley and glen, And the bugles re-echoed the music That came from the lips of the men; For we knew that the stars in our banner More bright in their splendor would be, And that blessings from Northland would greet us, When Sherman marched down to the sea.

Then forward, boys! forward to battle! We marched on our wearisome way, We stormed the wild hills of Resaca— God bless those who fell on that day! Then Kenesaw, dark in its glory, Frowned down on the flag of the free; But the East and the West bore our standard And Sherman marched down to the sea.

Still onward we pressed, till our banners Swept out from Atlanta's grim walls, And the blood of the patriot dampened The soil where the traitor-flag falls; We paused not to weep for the fallen, Who slept by each river and tree, Yet we twined them a wreath of the laurel, As Sherman marched down to the sea.

Oh, proud was our army that morning, That stood where the pine darkly towers, When Sherman said, "Boys, you are weary, But to-day fair Savannah is ours!" Then sang we the song of our chieftain, That echoed o'er river and lea, And the stars in our banner shone brighter When Sherman marched down to the sea.



O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!

WALT WHITMAN

[Sidenote: April 15, 1865] Abraham Lincoln was killed by John Wilkes Booth, almost exactly four years after the first shot was fired at Fort Sumter.

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.



ABRAHAM LINCOLN

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

[Sidenote: April 15, 1865] This is a fragment of the noble Commemoration Ode delivered at Harvard College to the memory of those of its students who fell in the war which kept the country whole.

Such was he, our Martyr-Chief, Whom late the Nation he had led, With ashes on her head, Wept with the passion of an angry grief: Forgive me, if from present things I turn To speak what in my heart will beat and burn, And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn. Nature, they say, doth dote, And cannot make a man Save on some worn-out plan, Repeating us by rote: For him her Old World moulds aside she threw, And, choosing sweet clay from the breast Of the unexhausted West, With stuff untainted shaped a hero new, Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true. How beautiful to see Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed, Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead; One whose meek flock the people joyed to be, Not lured by any cheat of birth, But by his clear-grained human worth, And brave old wisdom of sincerity! They knew that outward grace is dust; They could not choose but trust In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill, And supple-tempered will That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust. His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind, Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars, A sea-mark now, now lost in vapors blind, Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined, Fruitful and friendly for all human kind, Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of loftiest stars. Nothing of Europe here, Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still, Ere any names of Serf and Peer Could Nature's equal scheme deface; Here was a type of the true elder race, And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face. I praise him not; it were too late; And some innative weakness there must be In him who condescends to victory Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait, Safe in himself as in a fate. So always firmly he: He knew to bide his time, And can his fame abide, Still patient in his simple faith sublime, Till the wise years decide. Great captains, with their guns and drums, Disturb our judgment for the hour, But at last silence comes; These all are gone, and, standing like a tower, Our children shall behold his fame, The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame, New birth of our new soil, the first American.



THE BLUE AND THE GRAY

FRANCIS MILES FINCH

[Sidenote: 1861-1865] The women of Columbus, Mississippi, had shown themselves impartial in the offerings made to the memory of the dead. They strewed flowers alike on the graves of the Confederate and of the National soldiers.

By the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, Asleep on the ranks of the dead; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the one, the Blue; Under the other, the Gray.

These in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat; All with the battle-blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the laurel, the Blue; Under the willow, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours, The desolate mourners go, Lovingly laden with flowers, Alike for the friend and the foe; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the roses, the Blue; Under the lilies, the Gray.

So, with an equal splendor, The morning sun-rays fall, With a touch impartially tender, On the blossoms blooming for all; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Broidered with gold, the Blue; Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the summer calleth, On forest and field of grain, With an equal murmur falleth The cooling drip of the rain; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Wet with the rain, the Blue; Wet with the rain, the Gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done; In the storm of the years that are fading, No braver battle was won; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the blossoms, the Blue; Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war-cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever, When they laurel the graves of our dead. Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Love and tears for the Blue; Tears and love for the Gray.



AT THE FARRAGUT STATUE

ROBERT BRIDGES

[Sidenote: 1801, 1870] Farragut's statue by Saint Gaudens was unveiled in New York in 1881

To live a hero, then to stand In bronze serene above the city's throng; Hero at sea, and now on land Revered by thousands as they rush along;

If these were all the gifts of fame— To be a shade amid alert reality, And win a statue and a name— How cold and cheerless immortality!

But when the sun shines in the Square, And multitudes are swarming in the street, Children are always gathered there, Laughing and playing round the hero's feet.



GRANT

H. C. BUNNER

[Sidenote: 1822, 1885] This was written on the day of Grant's death, July 23.

Smile on, thou new-come Spring—if on thy breeze The breath of a great man go wavering up And out of this world's knowledge, it is well.

Kindle with thy green flame the stricken trees, And fire the rose's many-petaled cup, Let bough and branch with quickening life-blood swell— But Death shall touch his spirit with a life That knows not years or seasons. Oh, how small Thy little hour of bloom! Thy leaves shall fall, And be the sport of winter winds at strife; But he has taken on eternity. Yea, of how much this Death doth set him free!— Now are we one to love him, once again. The tie that bound him to our bitterest pain Draws him more close to Love and Memory.

O Spring, with all thy sweetheart frolics, say, Hast thou remembrance of those earlier springs When we wept answer to the laughing day, And turned aside from green and gracious things?

There was a sound of weeping over all— Mothers uncomforted, for their sons were not; And there was crueler silence: tears grew hot In the true eyes that would not let them fall.

Up from the South came a great wave of sorrow That drowned our hearthstones, splashed with blood our sills; To-day, that spared, made terrible To-morrow With thick presentiment of coming ills. Only we knew the Right—but oh, how strong, How pitiless, how insatiable the Wrong!

And then the quivering sword-hilt found a hand That knew not how to falter or grow weak; And we looked on, from end to end the land, And felt the heart spring up, and rise afresh The blood of courage to the whitened cheek, And fire of battle thrill the numbing flesh. Ay, there was death, and pain, and dear ones missed, And lips forever to grow pale unkissed; But lo, the man was here, and this was he; And at his hands Faith gave us victory.

Spring, thy poor life, that mocks his body's death, Is but a candle's flame, a flower's breath. He lives in days that suffering made dear Beyond all garnered beauty of the year. He lives in all of us that shall outlive

The sensuous things that paltry time can give. This Spring the spirit of his broken age Across the threshold of its anguish stole— All of him that was noble, fearless, sage, Lives in his loved nation's strengthened soul.



THE BURIAL OF SHERMAN

RICHARD WATSON GILDER

[Sidenote: 1820, 1891] Sherman died on January 14. His funeral took place two days later. The statue by Saint Gaudens was unveiled in New York in 1903.

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.

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 laurelled rest at the goal.

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.

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 fellow-men.



THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS

JOHN JEROME ROONEY

[Sidenote: 1898] The high quality of American marksmanship was never more conclusively shown than in the battle of Santiago.

A cheer and salute for the Admiral, and here's to the Captain bold, And never forget the Commodore's debt when the deeds of might are told! They stand to the deck through the battle's wreck when the great shells roar and screech— And never they fear when the foe is near to practise what they preach: But off with your hat and three times three for Columbia's true-blue sons, The men below who batter the foe—the men behind the guns!

Oh, light and merry of heart are they when they swing into port once more, When, with more than enough of the "greenbacked stuff," they start for their leave-o'-shore; And you'd think, perhaps, that the blue-bloused chaps who loll along the street Are a tender bit, with salt on it, for some fierce "mustache" to eat— Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and fairly stuns The modest worth of the sailor boys—the lads who serve the guns.

But say not a word till the shot is heard that tells that the fight is on, Till the long, deep roar grows more and more from the ships of "Yank" and "Don," Till over the deep the tempests sweep of fire and bursting shell, And the very air is a mad Despair in the throes of a living hell; Then down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the midday suns, You'll find the chaps who are giving the raps—the men behind the guns!

Oh, well they know how the cyclones blow that they loose from their cloud of death, And they know is heard the thunder-word their fierce ten-incher saith! The steel decks rock with the lightning shock, and shake with the great recoil, And the sea grows red with the blood of the dead and reaches for his spoil— But not till the foe has gone below or turns his prow and runs, Shall the voice of peace bring sweet release to the men behind the guns!



THE REGULAR ARMY MAN

JOSEPH C. LINCOLN

[Sidenote: 1898]

He ain't no gold-laced "Belvidere," To sparkle in the sun; He don't parade with gay cockade, And posies in his gun; He ain't no "pretty soldier boy," So lovely, spick and span,— He wears a crust of tan and dust, The Regular Army man; The marching, parching, Pipe-clay starching, Regular Army man.

He ain't at home in Sunday-school, Nor yet a social tea, And on the day he gets his pay He's apt to spend it free; He ain't no temperance advocate, He likes to fill the can, He's kind of rough, and, maybe, tough, The Regular Army man; The r'aring, tearing, Sometimes swearing, Regular Army man.

No State'll call him "noble son," He ain't no ladies' pet, But, let a row start anyhow, They'll send for him, you bet! He don't cut any ice at all In Fashion's social plan, He gets the job to face a mob, The Regular Army man; The milling, drilling, Made for killing, Regular Army man.

There ain't no tears shed over him When he goes off to war, He gets no speech nor prayerful preach From mayor or governor; He packs his little knapsack up And trots off in the van, To start the fight and start it right, The Regular Army man; The rattling, battling, Colt or Gatling, Regular Army man.

He makes no fuss about the job, He don't talk big or brave, He knows he's in to fight and win, Or help fill up a grave; He ain't no Mama's darling, but He does the best he can, And he's the chap that wins the scrap, The Regular Army man; The dandy, handy, Cool and sandy, Regular Army man.



WHEN THE GREAT GRAY SHIPS COME IN

GUY WETMORE CARRYL

[Sidenote: August 20, 1898] A week after the signing of the treaty of peace with Spain, Sampson's fleet came into New York harbor.

To eastward ringing, to westward winging, o'er mapless miles of sea, On winds and tides the gospel rides that the furthermost isles are free; And the furthermost isles make answer, harbor, and height, and hill, Breaker and beach cry, each to each, "'Tis the Mother who calls! Be still!" Mother! new-found, beloved, and strong to hold from harm, Stretching to these across the seas the shield of her sovereign arm, Who summoned the guns of her sailor sons, who bade her navies roam, Who calls again to the leagues of main, and who calls them this time home!

And the great gray ships are silent, and the weary watchers rest; The black cloud dies in the August skies, and deep in the golden west Invisible hands are limning a glory of crimson bars, And far above is the wonder of a myriad wakened stars! Peace! As the tidings silence the strenuous cannonade, Peace at last! is the bugle-blast the length of the long blockade; And eyes of vigil weary are lit with the glad release, From ship to ship and from lip to lip it is "Peace! Thank God for peace!"

Ah, in the sweet hereafter Columbia still shall show The sons of these who swept the seas how she bade them rise and go; How, when the stirring summons smote on her children's ear, South and North at the call stood forth, and the whole land answered "Here!" For the soul of the soldier's story and the heart of the sailor's song Are all of those who meet their foes as right should meet with wrong, Who fight their guns till the foeman runs, and then, on the decks they trod, Brave faces raise, and give the praise to the grace of their country's God!

Yes, it is good to battle, and good to be strong and free, To carry the hearts of a people to the uttermost ends of sea, To see the day steal up the bay, where the enemy lies in wait, To run your ship to the harbor's lip and sink her across the strait:— But better the golden evening when the ships round heads for home, And the long gray miles slip swiftly past in a swirl of seething foam, And the people wait at the haven's gate to greet the men who win! Thank God for peace! Thank God for peace, when the great gray ships come in!



AD FINEM FIDELES

GUY WETMORE CARRYL

[Sidenote: 1898] This was written just after the end of the war with Spain for the freeing of Cuba.

Far out, far out they lie. Like stricken women weeping, Eternal vigil keeping with slow and silent tread— Soft-shod as are the fairies, the winds patrol the prairies, The sentinels of God about the pale and patient dead! Above them, as they slumber in graves that none may number, Dawns grow to day, days dim to dusk, and dusks in darkness pass; Unheeded springs are born, unheeded summers brighten, And winters wait to whiten the wilderness of grass.

Slow stride appointed years across their bivouac places, With stern, devoted faces they lie, as when they lay, In long battalions dreaming, till dawn, to eastward gleaming, Awoke the clarion greeting of the bugles to the day. The still and stealthy speeding of the pilgrim days unheeding, At rest upon the roadway that their feet unfaltering trod, The faithful unto death abide, with trust unshaken, The morn when they shall waken to the reveille of God.

The faithful unto death! Their sleeping-places over The torn and trampled clover to braver beauty blows; Of all their grim campaigning no sight or sound remaining, The memory of them mutely to greater glory grows. Through waning ages winding, new inspiration finding, Their creed of consecration like a silver ribbon runs, Sole relic of the strife that woke the world to wonder With riot and the thunder of a sundered people's guns.

What matters now the cause? As little children resting, No more the battle breasting to the rumble of the drums, Enlinked by duty's tether, the blue and gray together, They wait the great hereafter when the last assembly comes. Where'er the summons found them, whate'er the tie that bound them, 'Tis this alone the record of the sleeping army saith:—

They knew no creed but this, in duty not to falter, With strength that naught could alter to be faithful unto death.



GROVER CLEVELAND

JOEL BENTON

[Sidenote: 1837-1908] On June 24, 1908, Grover Cleveland, twice President of the United States, died at his home in Princeton, N. J., at the age of seventy-one.

Bring cypress, rosemary and rue For him who kept his rudder true; Who held to right the people's will, And for whose foes we love him still.

A man of Plutarch's marble mould, Of virtues strong and manifold, Who spurned the incense of the hour, And made the nation's weal his dower.

His sturdy, rugged sense of right Put selfish purpose out of sight; Slowly he thought, but long and well, With temper imperturbable.

Bring cypress, rosemary and rue For him who kept his rudder true; Who went at dawn to that high star Where Washington and Lincoln are.



ATOAST TO OUR NATIVE LAND

ROBERT BRIDGES

[Sidenote: Paris, July 4, 1900]

Huge and alert, irascible yet strong, We make our fitful way 'mid right and wrong. One time we pour out millions to be free, Then rashly sweep an empire from the sea! One time we strike the shackles from the slaves, And then, quiescent, we are ruled by knaves. Often we rudely break restraining bars, And confidently reach out toward the stars.

Yet under all there flows a hidden stream Sprung from the Rock of Freedom, the great dream Of Washington and Franklin, men of old Who knew that freedom is not bought with gold. This is the Land we love, our heritage, Strange mixture of the gross and fine, yet sage And full of promise—destined to be great. Drink to Our Native Land! God Bless the State!



FIFTY YEARS

JAMES WELDON JOHNSON

[Sidenote: 1863-1913] On the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Signing of the Emancipation Proclamation.

O Brothers mine, to-day we stand Where half a century sweeps our ken, Since God, through Lincoln's ready hand, Struck off our bonds and made us men.

Just fifty years—a winter's day— As runs the history of a race; Yet, as we look back o'er the way, How distant seems our starting place!

Look farther back! Three centuries! To where a naked, shivering score, Snatched from their haunts across the seas, Stood, wild-eyed, on Virginia's shore.

This land is ours by right of birth, This land is ours by right of toil; We helped to turn its virgin earth, Our sweat is in its fruitful soil.

Where once the tangled forest stood,— Where flourished once rank weed and thorn,— Behold the path-traced, peaceful wood, The cotton white, the yellow corn.

To gain these fruits that have been earned, To hold these fields that have been won, Our arms have strained, our backs have burned, Bent bare beneath a ruthless sun.

That Banner which is now the type Of victory on field and flood— Remember, its first crimson stripe Was dyed by Attucks' willing blood.

And never yet has come the cry— When that fair flag has been assailed— For men to do, for men to die, That we have faltered or have failed.

We've helped to bear it, rent and torn, Through many a hot-breath'd battle breeze; Held in our hands, it has been borne And planted far across the seas.

And never yet,—O haughty Land, Let us, at least, for this be praised— Has one black, treason-guided hand Ever against that flag been raised.

Then should we speak but servile words, Or shall we hang our heads in shame? Stand back of new-come foreign hordes, And fear our heritage to claim?

No! stand erect and without fear, And for our foes let this suffice— We've bought a rightful sonship here, And we have more than paid the price.

And yet, my brothers, well I know The tethered feet, the pinioned wings, The spirit bowed beneath the blow, The heart grown faint from wounds and stings;

The staggering force of brutish might, That strikes and leaves us stunned and dazed; The long, vain waiting through the night To hear some voice for justice raised.

Full well I know the hour when hope Sinks dead, and 'round us everywhere Hangs stifling darkness, and we grope With hands uplifted in despair.

Courage! Look out, beyond, and see The far horizon's beckoning span! Faith in your God-known destiny! We are a part of some great plan.

Because the tongues of Garrison And Phillips now are cold in death, Think you their work can be undone? Or quenched the fires lit by their breath?

Think you that John Brown's spirit stops? That Lovejoy was but idly slain? Or do you think those precious drops From Lincoln's heart were shed in vain?

That for which millions prayed and sighed, That for which tens of thousands fought, For which so many freely died, God cannot let it come to naught.



THE AMERICAN VOLUNTEERS

MARIE VAN VORST

August, 1914-April, 1917 In the long months before the United States entered the war many Americans took service under the flag of France.

NEUTRAL! America, you cannot give To your sons' souls neutrality. Your powers Are sovereign, Mother, but past histories live In hearts as young as ours.

We who are free disdain oppression, lust And infamous raid. We have been pioneers For freedom and our code of honor must Dry and not startle tears.

We've read of Lafayette, who came to give His youth, with his companions and their powers, To help the Colonies—and heroes live In hearts as young as ours!

Neutral! We who go forth with sword and lance, A little band to swell the battle's flow, Go willingly, to pay again to France Some of the debt we owe.



I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH. . .

ALAN SEEGER

[Sidenote: 1914, 1916] The writer of this was a member of the French Foreign Legion. He was killed in action July 4, 1916.

I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air— I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand And lead me into his dark land And close my eyes and quench my breath— It may be I shall pass him still. I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows 'twere better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep, Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, Where hushed awakenings are dear... But I've a rendezvous with Death At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year, And I to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous.



THE CHOICE

RUDYARD KIPLING

April, 1917

(THE AMERICAN SPIRIT SPEAKS)

To the Judge of Right and Wrong With Whom fulfilment lies Our purpose and our power belong, Our faith and sacrifice.

Let Freedom's Land rejoice! Our ancient bonds are riven; Once more to us the eternal choice Of Good or Ill is given.

Not at a little cost, Hardly by prayer or tears, Shall we recover the road we lost In the drugged and doubting years.

But, after the fires and the wrath, But, after searching and pain, His Mercy opens us a path To live with ourselves again.

In the Gates of Death rejoice! We see and hold the good— Bear witness, Earth, we have made our choice With Freedom's brotherhood!

Then praise the Lord Most High Whose Strength hath saved us whole, Who bade us choose that the Flesh should die And not the living Soul!

To the God in Man displayed— Where e'er we see that Birth, Be love and understanding paid As never yet on earth!

To the Spirit that moves in Man, On Whom all worlds depend, Be Glory since our world began And service to the end!



ANNAPOLIS

WALDRON KINSOLVING POST

[Sidenote: April, 1917-November, 1918] This tribute to the Naval Academy at Annapolis was written while the American squadron of destroyers was helping to preserve the freedom of the seas.

The mother sits by Severn side, Where Severn joins the Bay, And great gray ships go down the tide And carry her sons away. They carry them far, they carry them wide, To all the Seven Seas, But never beyond her love and pride, And ever the deathless tales abide They learned at the Mother's knees.

Stern she is, as well becomes The nurse of gentle men, Who trains their tread to roll of drums, Their hands to sword and pen. Her iron-blooded arteries hold No soft Corinthian strain; The Attic soul in a Spartan mould, Loyal and hardy, clean and bold, Shall govern the roaring main.

They come from South, they come from North, They come from East and West; And who can say, when all go forth, That any of these are best? With names unknown, and names that won Their fame in a hundred fights, The admiral's son, and the ploughman's son, Mothered by her, they all are one, Her race of sailor knights.

Young and eager and unafraid, As neophytes they kneeled And watched their arms, and only prayed "Keep stain from every shield." Naught else they fear as they hunt the foes Through fog, and storm, and mine, Keen for the joy of the battle blows; But God make strong the hearts of those Who love, and are left behind.



YANKS

JAMES W. FOLEY

[Sidenote: 1917-1918]

O'Leary, from Chicago, and a first-class fightin' man, For his father was from Kerry, where the gentle art began: Sergeant Dennis P. O'Leary, from somewhere on Archie Road, Dodgin' shells and smellin' powder while the battle ebbed and flowed.

And the captain says: "O'Leary, from your fightin' company Pick a dozen fightin' Yankees and come skirmishin' with me; Pick a dozen fightin' devils, and I know it's you who can." And O'Leary, he saluted like a first-class fightin' man.

O'Leary's eye was piercin' and O'Leary's voice was clear: "Dimitri Georgoupoulos!" And Dimitri answered "Here!" Then "Vladimir Slaminsky! Step three paces to the front, For we're wantin' you to join us in a little Heinie hunt!"

"Garibaldi Ravioli!" Garibaldi was to share; And "Ole Axel Kettleson!" and "Thomas Scalp-the-Bear!" Who was Choctaw by inheritance, bred in the blood and bones, But set down in army records by the name of Thomas Jones.

"Van Winkle Schuyler Stuyvesant!" Van Winkle was a bud From the ancient tree of Stuyvesant and had it in his blood; "Don Miguel de Colombo!" Don Miguel's next of kin Were across the Rio Grande when Don Miguel went in.

"Ulysses Grant O'Sheridan!" Ulysses' sire, you see, Had been at Appomattox near the famous apple-tree; And "Patrick Michael Casey!" Patrick Michael, you can tell, Was a fightin' man by nature with three fightin' names as well.

"Joe Wheeler Lee!" And Joseph had a pair of fightin' eyes; And his granddad was a Johnny, as perhaps you might surmise; Then "Robert Bruce MacPherson!" And the Yankee squad was done With "Isaac Abie Cohen!" once a lightweight champion.

Then O'Leary paced 'em forward and, says he: "You Yanks, fall in!" And he marched 'em to the captain. "Let the skirmishin' begin." Says he, "The Yanks are comin', and you beat 'em if you can!" And saluted like a soldier and first-class fightin' man!



ANY WOMAN TO A SOLDIER

GRACE ELLERY CHANNING

[Sidenote: 1917, 1918]

The day you march away—let the sun shine, Let everything be blue and gold and fair, Triumph of trumpets calling through bright air, Flags slanting, flowers flaunting—not a sign That the unbearable is now to bear, The day you march away.

The day you march away—this I have sworn, No matter what comes after, that shall be Hid secretly between my soul and me As women hide the unborn— You shall see brows like banners, lips that frame Smiles, for the pride those lips have in your name. You shall see soldiers in my eyes that day— That day, O soldier, when you march away.

The day you march away—cannot I guess? There will be ranks and ranks, all leading on To one white face, and then—the white face gone, And nothing left but a gray emptiness— Blurred moving masses, faceless, featureless— The day you march away.



TO PEACE, WITH VICTORY

CORINNE ROOSEVELT ROBINSON

[Sidenote: November 11, 1918]

I could not welcome you, oh! longed-for peace, Unless your coming had been heralded By victory. The legions who have bled Had elsewise died in vain for our release.

But now that you come sternly, let me kneel And pay my tribute to the myriad dead, Who counted not the blood that they have shed Against the goal their valor shall reveal.

Ah! what had been the shame, had all the stars And stripes of our brave flag drooped still unfurled, When the fair freedom of the weary world Hung in the balance. Welcome then the scars!

Welcome the sacrifice! With lifted head Our nation greets dear Peace as honor's right; And ye the Brave, the Fallen in the fight, Had ye not perished, then were honor dead!

You cannot march away! However far, Farther and faster still I shall have fled Before you; and that moment when you land, Voiceless, invisible, close at your hand My heart shall smile, hearing the steady tread Of your faith-keeping feet.

First at the trenches I shall be to greet; There's not a watch I shall not share with you; But more—but most—there where for you the red, Drenched, dreadful, splendid, sacrificial field lifts up Inflexible demand, I will be there!

My hands shall hold the cup. My hands beneath your head Shall bear you—not the stretcher bearer's—through All anguish of the dying and the dead; With all your wounds I shall have ached and bled, Waked, thirsted, starved, been fevered, gasped for breath, Felt the death dew; And you shall live, because my heart has said To Death

That Death itself shall have no part in you!



YOU AND YOU

EDITH WHARTON

November, 1918

TO THE AMERICAN PRIVATE IN THE GREAT WAR

Every one of you won the war— You and you and you— Each one knowing what it was for, And what was his job to do.

Every one of you won the war, Obedient, unwearied, unknown, Dung in the trenches, drift on the shore, Dust to the world's end blown; Every one of you, steady and true, You and you and you— Down in the pit or up in the blue, Whether you crawled or sailed or flew, Whether your closest comrade knew Or you bore the brunt alone—

All of you, all of you, name after name, Jones and Robinson, Smith and Brown, You from the piping prairie town, You from the Fundy fogs that came,

You from the city's roaring blocks, You from the bleak New England rocks With the shingled roof in the apple boughs, You from the brown adobe house— You from the Rockies, you from the Coast, You from the burning frontier-post And you from the Klondyke's frozen flanks, You from the cedar-swamps, you from the pine, You from the cotton and you from the vine, You from the rice and the sugar-brakes, You from the Rivers and you from the Lakes, You from the Creeks and you from the Licks And you from the brown bayou— You and you and you— You from the pulpit, you from the mine, You from the factories, you from the banks, Closer and closer, ranks on ranks, Airplanes and cannon, and rifles and tanks, Smith and Robinson, Brown and Jones, Ruddy faces or bleaching bones, After the turmoil and blood and pain Swinging home to the folks again Or sleeping alone in the fine French rain— Every one of you won the war.

Every one of you won the war— You and you and you— Pressing and pouring forth, more and more, Toiling and straining from shore to shore To reach the flaming edge of the dark Where man in his millions went up like a spark, You, in your thousands and millions coming, All the sea ploughed with you, all the air humming, All the land loud with you, All our hearts proud with you, All our souls bowed with the awe of your coming!

Where's the Arch high enough, Lads, to receive you, Where's the eye dry enough, Dears, to perceive you, When at last and at last in your glory you come, Tramping home?

Every one of you won the war, You and you and you— You that carry an unscathed head, You that halt with a broken tread, And oh, most of all, you Dead, you Dead!

Lift up the Gates for these that are last, That are last in the great Procession. Let the living pour in, take possession, Flood back to the city, the ranch, the farm, The church and the college and mill, Back to the office, the store, the exchange, Back to the wife with the babe on her arm, Back to the mother that waits on the sill, And the supper that's hot on the range.

And now, when the last of them all are by, Be the Gates lifted up on high To let those Others in, Those Others, their brothers, that softly tread, That come so thick, yet take no ground, That are so many, yet make no sound, Our Dead, our Dead, our Dead!

O silent and secretly-moving throng, In your fifty thousand strong, Coming at dusk when the wreaths have dropt, And streets are empty, and music stopt, Silently coming to hearts that wait Dumb in the door and dumb at the gate, And hear your step and fly to your call— Every one of you won the war, But you, you Dead, most of all!



WITH THE TIDE

EDITH WHARTON

[Sidenote: January 6, 1919] This was written on the day after Theodore Roosevelt's death.

Somewhere I read, in an old book whose name Is gone from me, I read that when the days Of a man are counted, and his business done, There comes up the shore at evening, with the tide, To the place where he sits, a boat— And in the boat, from the place where he sits, he sees, Dim in the dusk, dim and yet so familiar, The faces of his friends long dead; and knows They come for him, brought in upon the tide, To take him where men go at set of day. Then rising, with his hands in theirs, he goes Between them his last steps, that are the first Of the new life—and with the ebb they pass, Their shaken sail grown small upon the moon.

Often I thought of this, and pictured me How many a man who lives with throngs about him, Yet straining through the twilight for that boat Shall scarce make out one figure in the stern, And that so faint its features shall perplex him With doubtful memories—and his heart hang back.

But others, rising as they see the sail Increase upon the sunset, hasten down, Hands out and eyes elated; for they see Head over head, crowding from bow to stern, Repeopling their long loneliness with smiles, The faces of their friends; and such go forth Content upon the ebb tide, with safe hearts.

But never To worker summoned when his day was done Did mounting tide bring in such freight of friends As stole to you up the white wintry shingle That night while they that watched you thought you slept. Softly they came, and beached the boat, and gathered In the still cove under the icy stars, Your last-born, and the dear loves of your heart, And all men that have loved right more than ease, And honor above honors; all who gave Free-handed of their best for other men, And thought their giving taking: they who knew Man's natural state is effort, up and up— All these were there, so great a company Perchance you marvelled, wondering what great ship Had brought that throng unnumbered to the cove Where the boys used to beach their light canoe After old happy picnics—

But these, your friends and children, to whose hands, Committed, in the silent night you rose And took your last faint steps— These led you down, O great American, Down to the Winter night and the white beach, And there you saw that the huge hull that waited Was not as are the boats of the other dead, Frail craft for a brief passage; no, for this Was first of a long line of towering transports, Storm-worn and ocean-weary every one, The ships you launched, the ships you manned, the ships That now, returning from their sacred quest With the thrice-sacred burden of their dead, Lay waiting there to take you forth with them, Out with the ebb tide, on some farther quest.



AMERICA'S WELCOME HOME

HENRY VAN DYKE

[Sidenote: November 11, 1918] When the fighting ceased there were two million American soldiers in France.

Oh, gallantly they fared forth in khaki and in blue, America's crusading host of warriors bold and true; They battled for the rights of man beside our brave Allies, And now they're coming home to us with glory in their eyes.

Oh, it's home again, and home again, America for me! Our hearts are turning home again and there we long to be, In our beautiful big country beyond the ocean bars, Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.

Our boys have seen the Old World as none have seen before. They know the grisly horror of the German gods of war: The noble faith of Britain and the hero-heart of France, The soul of Belgium's fortitude and Italy's romance.

They bore our country's great word across the rolling sea, "America swears brotherhood with all the just and free." They wrote that word victorious on fields of mortal strife, And many a valiant lad was proud to seal it with his life.

Oh, welcome home in Heaven's peace, dear spirits of the dead! And welcome home ye living sons America hath bred! The lords of war are beaten down, your glorious task is done; You fought to make the whole world free, and the victory is won.

Now it's home again, and home again, our hearts are turning west, Of all the lands beneath the sun America is best. We're going home to our own folks, beyond the ocean bars, Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.



THE UNKNOWN SOLIDER

ANGELA MORGAN

[Sidenote: November 10, 1921] This poem was read by the author over the casket of the Unknown Soldier, at the special memorial exercises held in the rotunda of the Capitol at Washington.

He is known to the sun-white Majesties Who stand at the gates of dawn. He is known to the cloud-borne company Whose souls but late have gone. Like wind-flung stars through lattice bars They throng to greet their own, With voice of flame they sound his name Who died to us unknown.

He is hailed by the time-crowned brotherhood, By the Dauntless of Marathon, By Raymond, Godfrey and Lion Heart Whose dreams he carried on. His name they call through the heavenly hall Unheard by earthly ear, He is claimed by the famed in Arcady Who knew no title here.

Oh faint was the lamp of Sirius And dim was the Milky Way. Oh far was the floor of Paradise From the soil where the soldier lay. Oh chill and stark was the crimson dark Where huddled men lay deep; His comrades all denied his call— Long had they lain in sleep.

Oh strange how the lamp of Sirius Drops low to the dazzled eyes, Oh strange how the steel-red battlefields Are floors of Paradise. Oh strange how the ground with never a sound Swings open, tier on tier, And standing there in the shining air Are the friends he cherished here.

They are known to the sun-shod sentinels Who circle the morning's door, They are led by a cloud-bright company Through paths unseen before. Like blossoms blown, their souls have flown Past war and reeking sod, In the book unbound their names are found— They are known in the courts of God!

THE END