Untouched, unwasted, tho' the crumbling clay Lay wreckt and ruined! Ah, is it not so, Dear poet-comrade, who from sight hast gone; Is it not so that spirit hath a life

Death may not conquer? But, O dauntless one i Still must we sorrow. Heavy is the strife And thou not with us; thou of the old race That with Jehovah parleyed, face to face.

THE TWELFTH OF DECEMBER

On this day Browning died?
Say, rather: On the tide

That throbs against those glorious palace walls;

With melody and myriad-tinted gleams;

On that enchanted tide,

Half real, and half poured from lovely dreams,

A soul of Beauty, a white, rhythmic flame, —

Past singing forth into the Eternal Beauty whence it came.

PART IV

SHERIDAN

I

QUIETLY, like a child

That sinks in slumber mild,

No pain or troubled thought his well-earned peace to mar, Sank into endless rest our thunderbolt of war.

-

His single arm an army, his very name a host, –
Not his the love of blood, the warrior's cruel boast.

SHERIDAN

159

III

But in the battle's flame

How glorious he came!

Even like a white-combed wave that breaks and tears the

shore,

While wreck lies strewn behind, and terror flies before.

'Twas he,

IV

his voice, his might,

Could stay the panic-flight,

Alone shame back the headlong, many leagued retreat, And turn to evening triumph morning's foul defeat.

V

He was our modern Mars;

Yet firm his faith that wars

Ere long would cease to vex the sad, ensanguined earth, And peace forever reign, as at Christ's holy birth.

VI

Blest land, in whose dark hour

Arise to loftiest power

No dazzlers of the sword to play the tyrant's part,
But patriot-soldiers, true and pure and high of heart!

VII

Of such our chief of all;

And he who broke the wall

Of civil strife in twain, no more to build or mend;
And he who hath this day made Death his faithful friend.

VIII

And now above his tomb

From out the eternal gloom

"Welcome!" his chieftain's voice sounds o'er the can

non's knell;

And of the three one only stays to say "Farewell!"

SHERMAN

I

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.

II

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 laureled rest at the goal.

III

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.

IV

But better than martial woe, and the pageant of civic sor

row;

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.

EREWHILE I sang the praise of them whose lustrous names
Flashed in war's dreadful flames;

Who rose in glory, and in splendor, and in might
To fame's sequestered hight.

II

Honor to all, for each his honors meekly carried,
Nor e'er the conquered harried;

All honor, for they sought alone to serve the state -
Not merely to be great.

III

Yes, while the glorious past our grateful memory craves,
And while yon bright flag waves,

Lincoln, Grant, Sherman, Sheridan, the peerless four,
Shall live for evermore;

IV

Shall shine the eternal stars of stern and loyal love,
All other stars above;

The imperial nation they made one, at last, and free,
Their monument shall be.

V

Ah, yes! but ne'er may we forget the praise to sound Of the brave souls that found

Death in the myriad ranks, 'mid blood, and groans, and stenches

Tombs in the abhorrèd trenches.

1 Chaplain William Henry Gilder, of the 40th New York Volunteers, died at Brandy Station, Virginia, in April, 1864, of smallpox caught while in attendance upon the regimental hospital.

VI

Comrades! To-day a tear-wet garland I would bring —
But one song let me sing,

For one sole hero of my heart and desolate home;
Come with me, Comrades, come!

VII

Bring your glad flowers, your flags, for this one humble grave;

For, Soldiers, he was brave!

Tho' fell not he before the cannon's thunderous breath, Yet noble was his death.

VIII

True soldier of his country and the sacred cross

He counted gain, not loss,

Perils and nameless horrors of the embattled field,
While he had help to yield.

IX

But not where 'mid wild cheers the awful battle broke, –

A hell of fire and smoke,

He to heroic death went forth with soul elate;

Harder his lonely fate.

X

There in the pest-house died he; stricken he fearless fell,

Knowing that all was well;

The high, mysterious Power whereof mankind has

dreamed

To him not distant seemed.

XI

Yet life to him was O, most dear, home, children,

wife,

But, dearer still than life,