A PROPHECY

Thou who did'st ride on Chickamauga's day,
All solitary down the fiery line,
And saw the ranks of battle rusty shine,
Where grand old Thomas held them from dismay,
Regret not now, while meaner pageants play
Their brief campaigns against the best of men!
For those spent balls of scandal pass their way,
And thou shalt see the victory again.
Modest and faithful, though these broken lines
Of party reel and thine own honor bleeds,
That mole is blind which Garfield undermines,
That dart falls short which hired malice speeds,
That man will stay whose place the State assigns,
And whose high mind a mighty people needs.