Not by the weary cares of State, Must yet be done again : Not in the dark, wild tide of war, In awful anarchy: Four fateful years of mortal strife, Which slowly drained the nation's life, (Yet for each drop that ran There sprang an armêd man !) Not then; but when, by measures meet, By victory, and by defeat, By courage, patience, skill, The people's fixed “We will!” Had pierced, had crushed Rebellion dead, Without a hand, without a head, At last, when all was well, He fell, O how he fell! The time, the place, the stealing shape, The wife, the widow's scream,- A dream? What means this pageant, then ? Who speak not when they meet, The flags half-mast that late so high The black festoons that stretch for miles, (No house too poor to show The cannon's sudden, sullen boom, The dreadful car that comes? * * * * * Peace! Let the long procession come; For hark, the mournful muffled drum, The trumpet's wail afar, And see, the awful car! Peace! Let the sad procession go, While cannon boom and bells toll slow. And go, thou sacred car, Bearing our woe afar! 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 ! Yes, let your tears indignant fall, (When Justice shall unsheathe her brand, She must direct the blow.) And you, amid the master-race, Bow while the body passes-nay, And, children, you must come in bands, To strew before the dead. So sweetly, sadly, sternly goes The churchyard where his children rest, And there his countrymen shall come, For many a year and many an age, Of that Paternal Soul. RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOORYARD BLOOM'D. ["I think this poem and 'Lowell's Commemoration Ode,' each in its own way, the most notable elegies resulting from the war and its episodes."-E. C. Stedman.] WHEN lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd, And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night, I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring. Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring, Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west, And thought of him I love. O powerful western fallen star! O shades of night—O moody, tearful night! O great star disappear'd-O the black murk that hides the star! O cruel hands that hold me powerless-O helpless soul of me! O harsh_surrounding cloud that will not free my soul. In the door-yard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash'd palings, Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shap'd leaves of rich green, With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love, With every leaf a miracle-and from this bush in the door-yard, With delicate-color'd blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green, A sprig with its flower I break. In the swamp in seclud'd recesses A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song. Solitary the thrush, The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements, Sings by himself a song. Song of the bleeding throat, Death's outlet song of life, (for well, dear brother, I know If thou wast not granted to sing thou would'st surely die.) Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities, Amid lanes, and through old woods, where lately the violets peep'd from the ground, spotting the gray debris, Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass, Passing the yellow-spear'd wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprisen, Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards, Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave, Night and day journeys a coffin. Coffin that passes through lanes and streets, Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land, With the pomp of the inloop'd flags, with the cities draped in black, With the show of the States themselves as of crape veil'd women standing, With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night, With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads, With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin and the sombre faces, With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn, |