V
Come, soldiers—not to battle as of yore,
But come to weep; ay, shed your noblest tears;
For lo, the stubborn chief, who knew not fears,
Lies cold at last, ye shall not see him more.
How long grim Death he fought and well,
That poor, lean frame doth tell.
VI
All's over now; here let our Captain rest,
Silent amid the blare of praise and blame;
Here let him rest, while never rests his fame;
Here in the city's heart he loved the best,
And where our sons his tomb may see
To make them brave as he;—
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,
He feared not the grave,
There is naught to regret.
