Poems of American Patriotism Part 18

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-- G.o.d 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 sh.o.r.es a-crowding; For you they call, the swaying ma.s.s, 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 sh.o.r.es, 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sion 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 G.o.d, 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-gra.s.s 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 mult.i.tudes are swarming in the street, Children are always gathered there, Laughing and playing round the hero's feet.