Peace! Let the long procession come, And see, the awful car! Peace! Let the sad procession go, While cannon boom and bells toll slow. And go, thou sacred car, Go, darkly borne, from State to State, The dust of that good man. Go, grandly borne, with such a train And you, the soldiers of our wars, Your late commander - slain ! So sweetly, sadly, sternly goes 5 10 15 20 The churchyard where his children rest, 25 The quiet spot that suits him best, And there his bones be laid. And there his countrymen shall come, For many and many a year. For many a year and many an age, The virtues shall enroll Of that Paternal Soul. 5 FRANCIS MILES FINCH 1827 THE author of this very popular poem was born at Ithaca, New York. In 1849 he was graduated from Yale, where he was the class poet. After practicing law in Ithaca for several years, he was elected a justice of the New York Court of Appeals. In 1892 he was appointed dean of the law school of Cornell University. THE BLUE AND THE GRAY By the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave grass quiver, Asleep are the ranks of the dead: 10 Under the sod and the dew, 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 lilies, the Gray. So with an equal splendor, With a touch impartially tender, On the blossoms blooming for all: Waiting the judgment day; So, when the summer calleth, On forest and field of grain, Sadly, but not with upbraiding, In the storm of the years that are fading 5 ΟΙ 15 20 25 30 Under the sod and the dew, No more shall the war cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red; When they laurel the graves of our dead! Waiting the judgment day: Love and tears for the Blue, Tears and love for the Gray. JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE 1827 5 10 A POPULAR writer of juvenile fiction, as well as the author of two or three volumes of verse, Trowbridge was born on a farm at Ogden, New York. His educational advantages were not of the best; but he showed early an aptitude for journalism. He was in New York for a time, but soon removed to Boston, where he has spent a long life in editorial and other literary work. THE VAGABONDS We are two travelers, Roger and I. Roger's my dog. - Come here, you scamp! Jump for the gentleman, mind your eye! Over the table, look out for the lamp! The rogue is growing a little old; Five years we've tramped through wind and weather, And slept outdoors when nights were cold, And ate and drank - and starved — together. 15 20 We've learned what comfort is, I tell you! A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow ! The paw he holds up there's been frozen), Plenty of catgut for my fiddle (This outdoor business is bad for strings), Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, No, thank ye, Sir, I never drink; Roger and I are exceedingly moral, — Aren't we, Roger? See him wink! Well, something hot, then, we won't quarrel. He's thirsty, too, see him nod his head? What a pity, Sir, that dogs can't talk! He understands every word that's said, And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk. The truth is, Sir, now I reflect, I've been so sadly given to grog, I wonder I've not lost the respect (Here's to you, Sir !) even of my dog. But he sticks by, through thick and thin; And this old coat, with its empty pockets, And rags that smell of tobacco and gin, He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets. 5 10 15 20 There isn't another creature living Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving, To such a miserable, thankless master! By George! it makes my old eyes water! That is, there's something in this gin That chokes a fellow. But no matter ! 25 30 |