We say they fought each for the Right he saw.
There is but one good greater than the Right —
The imperishable Love of Right. That stays,
The needle of our destiny, howe'er
Its sentient tremblings momently may swerve.
God of the storm, the fog, the sinking sea,
Be praised for that deliverance!

And yet —
What if that strife, which all men said must be,
Solvent of error, touchstone of respect,
New bond of strength, need never to have been?

We doubt, but what shall ermined History say?
Somewhere in every devastating storm
Of hungry flame that sweeps the night with fear
Once lurked a primal spark not hard to quench:
Perchance it smouldered long in soft neglect
Till came a breeze, gentle as infant's breath,
And piled on peril ruin and dismay —
Ashes for beauty, as though patient years
Had been withdrawn from Time, to be consumed.
Of our dire conflagration who shall name
The careless passer, or the sleeping guard,
Or those who left the danger to their sons,
Trusting the futile trench of compromise?
Ah, name them boldly: the revered, the great,
Firstlings of fame in every patriot's thought,
The sculptured saints about the nation's fane,
Their faults forgotten, in a people's pride.

Men of that elder day, who gave us life,
Honor for what you did, but not, alas!
For what you left undone. For, when you built
The nation's temple, hallowing every stone
With sacrifice, you knew a serpent dwelt
'Neath its foundations, yet you took your ease
And left the poison of its brood to spread.
On you, on you the blood of Gettysburg!