AT GARFIELD'S GRAVE 113 That they peddle their petty schemes, and blate and babble and groan. I sometimes think it were best, and a man were little to blame, Should he pass on his silent way nor mix with the noisy shame. AT GARFIELD'S GRAVE (SEPTEMBER, 1881) ALL summer long the people knelt And listened at the sick man's door: Each pang which that pale sufferer felt Throbbed through the land from shore to shore; And as the all-dreaded hour drew nigh, O broken-hearted, widowed one, And not alone here by the sea, And not in his own land alone, EPITAPH A man not perfect, but of heart MEMORIAL DAY I SHE saw the bayonets flashing in the sun, The flags that proudly waved; she heard the bugles call ing; She saw the tattered banners falling About the broken staffs, as one by one The remnant of the mighty army past; And at the last Flowers for the graves of those whose fight was done. II She heard the tramping of ten thousand feet As the long line swept round the crowded square; That filled the warm and blossom-scented air The shrilling fife, the roll and throb of drum, Who chose the better part, Who for their country bled! The dead! Great God! she stood there in the street, Living, yet dead in soul and mind and heart While far away His grave was deckt with flowers by strangers' hands to-day. THE NORTH TO THE SOUTH LAND of the South, whose stricken heart and brow Bring grief to eyes that erewhile only knew For their own loss to sorrow, spurn not thou These tribute tears; ah, we have suffered too. NEW ORLEANS, 1885. THE BURIAL OF GRANT 115 THE BURIAL OF GRANT (NEW YORK, August 8, 1885) I YE living soldiers of the mighty war, Once more from roaring cannon and the drums And bugles blown at morn, the summons comes; Forget the halting limb, each wound and scar; Once more your Captain calls to you; Come to his last review! II And come ye, too, bright spirits of the dead, Ye who flamed heavenward from the embattled field; Life from the loathful prison or anguished bed; III Nor be ye absent, ye immortal band,- But helped the fallen foe. To join his army of the dead and living,— Ye who once felt his might, and his forgiving; Brothers, whom more in love than hate he smote. For all his countrymen make room By our great hero's tomb! Come, soldiers V not to battle as of yore, How long grim Death he fought and well, VI All's over now; here let our Captain rest, And where our sons his tomb may see VII As brave as he he on whose iron arm Our Greatest leaned, our gentlest and most wise; Leaned when all other help seemed mocking lies, While this one soldier checked the tide of harm, And they together saved the state, And made it free and great. THE DEAD COMRADE At the burial of Grant, a bugler stood forth and sounded "taps." I COME, soldiers, arouse ye! Another has gone; Let us bury our comrade, His battles are done. His sun it is set; He was true, he was brave, THE LIFE-MASK OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN 117 II Bring music and banners That Death conquered here. Bring him home ne'er to rove, Bear him home to his rest, And over his breast Fold the flag of his love. III Great Captain of battles, His spirit make free. Sound taps, and away! Farewell, soldier dead! Farewell for a day. ON THE LIFE-MASK OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN THIS bronze doth keep the very form and mold That human, humorous mouth; those cheeks that hold |