Civil soldiers! reassembled by the river of your fame,
Ye who saved the virgin city bathed in Washington's clear name!
Which of all your past commanders doth this day your memory haunt? —
Scott, McDowell, Burnside, Hooker, Meade, McClellan, Halleck, Grant?
There is one too little mentioned when your proud reunions come,
And the thoughtful love of country dies upon the sounding drum;
Let me call him in your muster, let me wake him in your grief!
Captain by the Constitution, Abram Lincoln was your chief!
Ever nearest to his person ye were his defence and shield.
He alone of your commanders died upon the battlefield.
All your generals were his children, leaning on him, childish-willed,
And they all were filial mourners round the mighty tomb he filled.
Tender as the harp of David, his soft answers now become,
When amid the care of kingdoms rose and fell some Absalom;
And his humor gilds his memory like a light within a tent,
Or the sunken sun that lingers on the lofty monument.
Like the slave who saw the sunrise with his face toward the West,
As it flashed, while yet unrisen, on a slender steeple's crest;
So while victory turned her from him ere the dawn in welcome came,
On his pen Emancipation glittered like an altar flame.
Feeling for the doomed deserter, feeling for the drafted sire,
For the empty Northern hearthstone and the Southern home afire,
Mercy kept him grim as Moloch, all the future babes to free,
And eternal peace to garner for the millions yet to be.
Not a soldier of the classics, he could see through learned pretence —
Master of the greatest science, military commonsense.
As he watched your marches, comrades! hither, thither, wayward years,
On his map the roads you followed you can trace them by his tears.
In the rear the people clamored, in the front the generals missed,
In his inner councils harbored critic and antagonist,
But he ruled them by an instinct, like the queen's among the bees,
With a health of soul that honeyed Publicans and Pharisees.
Faint of faith, we looked behind us for a chief of higher tone,
While the voice that drowned the trumpets was the echo of our own;
Ever thus, my old companions, Genius has us by the hand,
Walking on the tempest with us, every crisis to command!
Like the bugle blown at evening by some homesick son of art,
Lincoln's words unearthly quiver in the universal heart,
Not an echo left of malice, scarce of triumph in the strain,
As when summer thunder murmurs in pathetic showers of rain.
Years forever consecrated, here he lived, where duties be,
Never railing on the climate, nor the toil's monotony;
Here his darling boy he buried and the night in vigil wept,
Like the Lord within the garden when the tired disciples slept.
How his call for men went ringing round the world, a mighty bell,
And the races of creation came the proud revolt to quell.
Standing in the last reaction, on the rock of human rights,
Worn and mournful grew his features in the flash of battle lights.
Once, like Moses from the mountain, looked he on the land he won,
When the slaves in burning Richmond knelt and thought him Washington,
Then an envious bravo snatched him from the theatre of things,
To become a saint of nature in the pantheon of kings.
Faded are the golden chevrons, vanished is the pride of war,
Mild in heaven his moral glory lingers like the morning star,
And the freeman's zone of cotton his white spirit seems to be,
And the insects in the harvest beat his army's reveille.
All around him spoiled or greedy, women vain and honor spent,
Still his faith in human nature lived without discouragement;
For his country which could raise him, barefoot, to the monarch's height,
Could he mock her? or his mother — though her name she could not write?
Deep the wells of humble childhood, cool the springs beside the hut,
Millions more as poor as Lincoln see the door he has not shut.
Not till wealth has made its canker every poor white's cabin through,
Shall the great republic wither, or the infidel subdue!
Stand around your great commander, lay aside your little fears!
Every Lincoln carries freedom's car along a hundred years.
And when next the call for soldiers rolls along the golden belt,
Look to see a mightier column rise, and march, prevail and melt!
Ye who saved the virgin city bathed in Washington's clear name!
Which of all your past commanders doth this day your memory haunt? —
Scott, McDowell, Burnside, Hooker, Meade, McClellan, Halleck, Grant?
There is one too little mentioned when your proud reunions come,
And the thoughtful love of country dies upon the sounding drum;
Let me call him in your muster, let me wake him in your grief!
Captain by the Constitution, Abram Lincoln was your chief!
Ever nearest to his person ye were his defence and shield.
He alone of your commanders died upon the battlefield.
All your generals were his children, leaning on him, childish-willed,
And they all were filial mourners round the mighty tomb he filled.
Tender as the harp of David, his soft answers now become,
When amid the care of kingdoms rose and fell some Absalom;
And his humor gilds his memory like a light within a tent,
Or the sunken sun that lingers on the lofty monument.
Like the slave who saw the sunrise with his face toward the West,
As it flashed, while yet unrisen, on a slender steeple's crest;
So while victory turned her from him ere the dawn in welcome came,
On his pen Emancipation glittered like an altar flame.
Feeling for the doomed deserter, feeling for the drafted sire,
For the empty Northern hearthstone and the Southern home afire,
Mercy kept him grim as Moloch, all the future babes to free,
And eternal peace to garner for the millions yet to be.
Not a soldier of the classics, he could see through learned pretence —
Master of the greatest science, military commonsense.
As he watched your marches, comrades! hither, thither, wayward years,
On his map the roads you followed you can trace them by his tears.
In the rear the people clamored, in the front the generals missed,
In his inner councils harbored critic and antagonist,
But he ruled them by an instinct, like the queen's among the bees,
With a health of soul that honeyed Publicans and Pharisees.
Faint of faith, we looked behind us for a chief of higher tone,
While the voice that drowned the trumpets was the echo of our own;
Ever thus, my old companions, Genius has us by the hand,
Walking on the tempest with us, every crisis to command!
Like the bugle blown at evening by some homesick son of art,
Lincoln's words unearthly quiver in the universal heart,
Not an echo left of malice, scarce of triumph in the strain,
As when summer thunder murmurs in pathetic showers of rain.
Years forever consecrated, here he lived, where duties be,
Never railing on the climate, nor the toil's monotony;
Here his darling boy he buried and the night in vigil wept,
Like the Lord within the garden when the tired disciples slept.
How his call for men went ringing round the world, a mighty bell,
And the races of creation came the proud revolt to quell.
Standing in the last reaction, on the rock of human rights,
Worn and mournful grew his features in the flash of battle lights.
Once, like Moses from the mountain, looked he on the land he won,
When the slaves in burning Richmond knelt and thought him Washington,
Then an envious bravo snatched him from the theatre of things,
To become a saint of nature in the pantheon of kings.
Faded are the golden chevrons, vanished is the pride of war,
Mild in heaven his moral glory lingers like the morning star,
And the freeman's zone of cotton his white spirit seems to be,
And the insects in the harvest beat his army's reveille.
All around him spoiled or greedy, women vain and honor spent,
Still his faith in human nature lived without discouragement;
For his country which could raise him, barefoot, to the monarch's height,
Could he mock her? or his mother — though her name she could not write?
Deep the wells of humble childhood, cool the springs beside the hut,
Millions more as poor as Lincoln see the door he has not shut.
Not till wealth has made its canker every poor white's cabin through,
Shall the great republic wither, or the infidel subdue!
Stand around your great commander, lay aside your little fears!
Every Lincoln carries freedom's car along a hundred years.
And when next the call for soldiers rolls along the golden belt,
Look to see a mightier column rise, and march, prevail and melt!
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