The just, the wise, the brave Attend thee to the grave!
And you, the soldiers of our wars, Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars, Salute him once again,
Your late commander - slain!
Yes, let your tears, indignant, fall, But leave your muskets on the wall: Your country needs you now Beside the forge, the plough!
(When Justice shall unsheathe her brand, If Mercy may not stay her hand, Nor would we have it so, She must direct the blow!)
And you, amid the master-race, Who seem so strangely out of place, Know ye who cometh? He
Who hath declared you free!
Bow while the body passes, Fall on your knees, and weep, and pray! Weep, weep - I would ye might Your poor, black faces white!
And, children, you must come in bands, With garlands in your little hands,
Of blue, and white, and red, To strew before the dead!
So, sweetly, sadly, sternly goes The fallen to his last repose :
Beneath no mighty dome, But in his modest home:
The churchyard where his children rest, The quiet spot that suits him best:
There shall his grave be made, And there his bones be laid!
And there his countrymen shall come, With memory proud, with pity dumb, And strangers far and near, For many and many a year!
For many a year, and many an age, While history on her ample page The virtues shall enroll Of that paternal soul!
SOUTH CAROLINA. - 1865.
BEHOLD her now, with restless, flashing eyes, Crouching, a thing forlorn, beside the way! Behold her ruined altars heaped to-day
With ashes of her costly sacrifice!
How changed the once proud State that led the strife, And flung the war-cry first throughout the land! See helpless now the parricidal hand
Which aimed the first blow at the nation's life!
The grass is growing in the city's street,
Where stand the shattered spires, the broken walls; And through the solemn noonday silence falls
The sentry's footstep as he treads his beat.
Behold once more the old flag proudly wave Above the ruined fortress by the sea! No longer shall that glorious banner be The ensign of a land where dwells the slave.
Hark! on the air what swelling anthems rise : A ransomed people, by the sword set free, Are chanting now a song of liberty; Hear how their voices echo to the skies!
Oh righteous retribution, great and just! Behold the palm-tree fallen to the earth, Where Freedom, rising from a second birth, No more shall trail her garments in the dust!
BY LIEUTENANT RICHARD REALF.
Nor ever, in all human time,
Did any man or nation
Plant foot upon the peaks sublime Of Mount Transfiguration, But first in long preceding hours Of dread and solemn being, Clashed battle 'gainst Satanic powers, Alone with the All-seeing.
God's glory lights no mortal brows Which sorrow hath not wasted; No wine hath He for lips of those His lees who never tasted. Nor ever, till in bloodiest stress The heart is well approvéd, Does the All-brooding Tenderness Cry, "This is my beloved!"
O land, through years of shrouded nights In triple blackness groping, Toward the far prophetic lights
That beacon the world's hoping,
Behold! no tittle shalt thou miss
Of that transforming given To all who, dragged through hell's abyss, Hold fast their grip on heaven.
The Lord God's purpose throbs along Our stormy turbulences;
He keeps the sap of nations strong
By hidden recompenses.
The Lord God sows his righteous grain In battle-blasted furrows,
And draws from present days of pain Large peace for calm to-morrows.
From strokes of unseen cimitars A million hearts are bleeding; A cry runs tingling to the stars Of babes' and widows' pleading: While at hell's altars sacrificed, God's martyred son forever, Lies the clear life that crystallized Our kingliest endeavor.
And yet beneath our brimming tears Lies nobler cause for singing Than ever in the shining years, When all our vales were ringing With happy sounds of mellow peace; And all our cities thundered With lusty echoes, and our seas By freighted keels were sundered.
For lo! the branding flails that drave Our husks of foul self from us Show all the watching heavens we have Immortal grain of promise.
And lo! the dreadful blasts that blew In gusts of fire amid us
Have scorched and winnowed from the true The falseness which undid us.
No floundering more, for mind or heart, Among the lower levels;
No welcome more for moods that sort With satyrs and with devils; But over all our fruitful slopes, On all our plains of beauty, Fair temples for fair human hopes, And altar-thrones for duty.
Wherefore, O ransomed people, shout!
O banners, wave in glory! O bugles, blow the triumph out! O drums, strike up the story! Clang, broken fetters, idle swords! Clap hands, O States, together! And let all praises be the Lord's, Our Saviour and our Father.
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