Part 4

Cover the hands that are resting, half-tried, Crossed on the bosom, or low by the side: Hands to you, mother, in infancy thrown; Hands that you, father, close hid in your own; Hands where you, sister, when tried and dismayed, Hung for protection and counsel and aid; Hands that you, brother, for faithfulness knew; Hands that you, wife, wrung in bitter adieu. Bravely the cross of their country they bore; Words of devotion they wrote with their gore; Grandly they grasped for a garland of light, Catching the mantle of death-darkened night. Cover them over--yes, cover them over-- Parent, and husband, and brother, and lover: Clasp in your hearts these dead heroes of ours, And cover them over with beautiful flowers!

Cover the feet that, all weary and torn, Hither by comrades were tenderly borne: Feet that have trodden, through love-lighted ways, Near to your own, in the old happy days; Feet that have pressed, in Life's opening morn, Roses of pleasure, and Death's poisoned thorn. Swiftly they rushed to the help of the right, Firmly they stood in the shock of the fight. Ne'er shall the enemy's hurrying tramp Summon them forth from their death-guarded camp; Ne'er, till Eternity's bugle shall sound, Will they come out from their couch in the ground. Cover them over--yes, cover them over-- Parent, and husband, and brother, and lover: Rough were the paths of those heroes of ours-- Now cover them over with beautiful flowers!

Cover the hearts that have beaten so high, Beaten with hopes that were born but to die; Hearts that have burned in the heat of the fray, Hearts that have yearned for the homes far away; Hearts that beat high in the charge's loud tramp, Hearts that low fell in the prison's foul damp. Once they were swelling with courage and will, Now they are lying all pulseless and still; Once they were glowing with friendship and love, Now the great souls have gone soaring above. Bravely their blood to the nation they gave, Then in her bosom they found them a grave. Cover them over--yes, cover them over-- Parent, and husband, and brother, and lover: Press to your hearts these dead heroes of ours, And cover them over with beautiful flowers!

One there is, sleeping in yonder low tomb, Worthy the brightest of flow'rets that bloom. Weakness of womanhood's life was her part; Tenderly strong was her generous heart. Bravely she stood by the sufferer's side, Checking the pain and the life-bearing tide; Fighting the swift-sweeping phantom of Death, Easing the dying man's fluttering breath; Then, when the strife that had nerved her was o'er, Calmly she went to where wars are no more. Voices have blessed her now silent and dumb; Voices will bless her in long years to come. Cover her over--yes, cover her over-- Blessings, like angels, around her shall hover; Cherish the name of that sister of ours, And cover her over with beautiful flowers!

Cover the thousands who sleep far away-- Sleep where their friends can not find them to-day; They who in mountain and hill-side and dell Rest where they wearied, and lie where they fell. Softly the grass-blade creeps round their repose; Sweetly above them the wild flow'ret blows; Zephyrs of freedom fly gently o'erhead, Whispering names for the patriot dead. So in our minds we will name them once more, So in our hearts we will cover them o'er; Roses and lilies and violets blue, Bloom in our souls for the brave and the true. Cover them over--yes, cover them over--Parent, and husband, and brother, and lover: Think of those far-away heroes of ours, And cover them over with beautiful flowers!

When the long years have crept slowly away, E'en to the dawn of Earth's funeral day; When, at the Archangel's trumpet and tread, Rise up the faces and forms of the dead; When the great world its last judgment awaits; When the blue sky shall swing open its gates, And our long columns march silently through, Past the Great Captain, for final review; Then for the blood that has flown for the right, Crowns shall be given, untarnished and bright; Then the glad ear of each war-martyred son Proudly shall hear the good judgment, "Well done." Blessings for garlands shall cover them over--Parent, and husband, and brother, and lover: God will reward those dead heroes of ours, And cover them over with beautiful flowers!

THE LOVES OF THE NATIONS.

[READ AT THE ARLINGTON NATIONAL CEMETERY, DECORATION DAY, 1884.]

I.

The Grecians loved their soldier dead: They prized the casket, though the pearl had fled. When he who could be dangerous in the fight, Had proved his soul's magnificence and might, But--his poor body vanquished--with a sigh Had laid him down upon the sands to die, He vaulted 'mongst the nation's honored sons; He was the love of all the living ones. They rallied round a chief when fallen low, To guard his numb flesh from a hostile blow. "Rescue the dead!" was then the clarion cry; "Rescue the dead, for we ourselves must die!" So, oft they made, before the strife was done, A dozen corpses more, to rescue one. When that great agony of muscle, brain, Heart, soul, tumultuous joy, and frantic pain, Men call a battle, had been lost and won, And it was told what side the gods were on, And o'er the brows of which exhausted band Proud Victory should press her jewelled hand, Then from the conquered to the conquering came A voice that made its way like tongues of flame, And swift and chivalrous compliance bred: "Give us a truce, that we may bury our dead!" Six Grecian generals came from war one day, All well esteemed, for gallant men were they; But some one, pointing grimly at them, said, "They on the field unburied left their dead."

Then popular rage rose in a fiery flood, And curled about them, and licked up their blood. Why did each one fall with dissevered head? Because the Grecians loved their soldier dead! A man came running from Thermopylæ, And said, "'Tis done; they all were slain but me." Why did his fellow-Spartans sneer and hiss, Recoil from him, as from a leper's kiss, And say, "Take back your blood, you craven drone, And leave it where your comrades lost their own?" It was because the unhappy man had sped Away from death, and left his comrades dead. The Grecian mother, with a tearless eye, Sent her son warward, with this mandate high: "Now be this shield your glory or your hearse! With it you earn my blessing or my curse! Rather your ashes flecked with sparks of fame, Than your live body clad in robes of shame!" Oh yes, the Grecians loved their soldier dead! Whether beneath the grass-blade's dainty tread, Or 'mid the funeral pyre's majestic blaze, They glowed within the living's envied gaze! Yet not like ours that Grecian love could be: They did not love the living as do we!

II.

The Romans loved their soldier dead, And brightest, grandest honors o'er them spread. That hard, grim nation, which with fierce iron hand Clasped by the choking throat land after land, And blood of its own living freely shed, Grew strangely tender with its warrior dead. The past was dragged for deeds of might and fame, To hang in garlands on the golden name; The magic silver of some gifted tongue Chaplets of praise above his body flung; And words fell on the living, listening ear, The dead might well awaken but to hear.

The flags that he had captured, draped in gloom, Before him waved--he found them at his tomb; Sweet flowers, the freshest beauties of a day, Made a fair garden round the hero's clay; Great monuments wrote solemnly on high His glory o'er the blue page of the sky; And epitaphs, beneath the sparkling name, Gave to the voiceless dead a tongue of flame. Who fell with patriotic bravery, knew, Humble or proud, his deeds would have their due; Whoe'er with baseness threw his name away, Knew that, when fall'n, he formed the vulture's prey. Oh yes, the Romans loved their valiant dead, The while their living were to victory led! Swift-sighted Rome! you knew the intense desire Of men to live when lesser men expire; Knew how they struggle, e'en with latest breath, To make their names o'erbridge the gulf of death; Knew the last rites to one dead hero paid Would sharpen many a living warrior's blade; Knew how your victory-accustomed bands Were waved along by their dead comrades' hands! Yet not like ours that Roman love could be: They did not love the living as do we!

III.

And does Columbia love _her_ dead?-- No word of praise or honor can be said, No language has been given to our race, No monument has majesty or grace, No music, filling with weird sweets the air, No maid or matron eloquently fair, Naught that can feeling to expression wed, May say how well we love our soldier dead. If in those days when self was all above, Men loved so well ere they were taught to love, What deep affection may be felt and seen From hearts taught by the love-crowned Nazarene!

The narrow Tiber creeps through Cæsar's Rome, The broad Potomac laves our chieftain's home; The cascades of the Grecians murmur still, Niagara thunders o'er the Western hill. So seems it, in this era of heart-lore, As if our love transcended all before. In this republic--Giant of Free Lands, Holding apart the oceans with strong hands-- Has through these years in massive quiet flown A tide of tender heart-love for its own. When swirling floods rush through the meadows fair, And turn them into valleys of despair, A flood of love sweeps o'er the prosperous hills, And brings them aid to cure their sudden ills. When the red fire-king holds his crimson court, And ruins homes to sate his fiendish sport, There speeds a flame of pity through the land, Which opens wide the generous heart and hand. Love for the worthy living, our hearts' guide; Love for the worthy dead, his dark-veiled bride. Love for the living martyrs of the land, And garlands for the dead, go hand in hand. So, while we deck the brave ones that are gone, Our hearts for those who live, beat truly on. When a man throws the treasures of his life Into the Land's fierce, self-preserving strife, Let him be sure, in the world's battles grim, When war is o'er, the Land will fight for him! So shall God's blessing mingle with these flowers, And love of dead and living both be ours; And benedictions on our hearts be shed; For they are living, whom we mourn as dead!

COLLEGE POEMS.

RIFTS IN THE CLOUD.

[GRADUATING POEM, JUNE 17, 1869.]

Life is a cloud--e'en take it as you may; Illumine it with Pleasure's transient ray; Brighten its edge with Virtue; let each fold E'en by the touch of God be flecked with gold, While angel-wings may kindly hover near, And angel-voices murmur words of cheer, Still, life's a cloud, forever hanging nigh, Forever o'er our winding pathways spread, Ready to blacken on some saddened eye, And hurl its bolts on some defenseless head!

Yes, there are lives that seem to know no ill; Paths that seem straight, with naught of thorn or hill. The bright and glorious sun, each welcome day, Flashes upon the flowers that deck their way, And the soft zephyr sings a lullaby, 'Mid rustling trees, to please the ear and eye; And all the darling child of fortune needs, And all his dull, half-slumbering caution heeds, While fairy eyes their watch above him keep, Is breath to live and weariness to sleep. But life's a cloud! and soon the smiling sky May wear the unwelcome semblance of a frown, And the fierce tempest, madly rushing by, May raise its dripping wings, and strike him down!

When helpless infancy, for love or rest, Lies nestling to a mother's yearning breast, While she, enamored of its ways and wiles As mothers only are, looks down and smiles, And spies a thousand unsuspected charms In the sweet babe she presses in her arms, While he, the love-light kindled in his eyes, Sends to her own, electrical replies, A ray of sunshine comes for each caress, From out the clear blue sky of happiness. But life's a cloud! and soon the smiling face The frowns and tears of childish grief may know, And the love-language of the heart give place To the wild clamor of a baby's woe.

The days of youth are joyful, in their way; Bare feet tread lightly, and their steps are gay. Parental kindness grades the early path, And shields it from the storm-king's dreaded wrath. But there are thorns that prick the infant flesh, And bid the youthful eyes to flow afresh, Thorns that maturer nerves would never feel, With wounds that bleed not less, that soon they heal. When we look back upon our childhood days, Look down the long and sweetly verdant ways Wherein we gayly passed the shining hours, We see the beauty of its blooming flowers, We breathe its fresh and fragrant air once more, And, counting all its many pleasures o'er, And giving them their natural place of chief, Forget our disappointments and our grief. Sorrows that now were light, then weighed us down, And claimed our tears for every surly frown. For life's a cloud, e'en take it as we will, The changing wind ne'er banishes or lifts; The pangs of grief but make it darker still, And happiness is nothing but its rifts.

There is a joy in sturdy manhood still; Bravery is joy; and he who says, I WILL, And turns, with swelling heart, and dares the fates, While firm resolve upon his purpose waits, Is happier for the deed; and he whose share Is honest toil, pits that against dull care. And yet, in spite of labor, faith, or prayer, Dark clouds and fearful o'er our paths are driven; They take the shape of monsters in the air, And almost shut our eager gaze from heaven!

Disease is there, with slimy, loathsome touch, With hollow, blood-shot eyes and eager clutch, Longing to strike us down with pangs of pain, And bind us there, with weakness' galling chain. Ruin is there, with cunning ambush laid, Waiting some panic in the ranks of trade, Some profitless endeavor, or some trust By recreant knave abused, to snatch the crust From out the mouths of them we love the best, And bring gaunt hunger, an unwelcome guest. Disgrace is there, of honest look bereft, Truth in his right hand, falsehood in his left, Pride in his mouth, the devil in his eye, His garment truth, his cold black heart a lie, Forging the bolts to blast some honored name; Longing to see some victim wronged or wrong; To see him step into the pool of shame, Or soiled by loved ones that to him belong.

A dark cloud hovers over every zone-- The cloud of ignorance. The great unknown, Defying comprehension, still hangs low Above our feeble minds. When we who now Have stumbled 'neath the ever-varying load That marks the weary student's royal road, Have hurried over verbs in headlong haste, And various thorny paths of language traced; Have run our muddled heads, with rueful sigh, 'Gainst figures truthful, that yet seemed to lie; Have peeped into the Sciences, and learned How much we do not know; have bravely turned Our guns of eloquence on forest trees, And preached grave doctrines to the wayward breeze; When we have done all this, the foggy cloud, With scarce a rift, is still above us bowed; And we are children, on some garden's verge, Groping for flowers the opposing wall beneath, Who, flushed and breathless, may at last emerge, With a few scanty blossoms for a wreath.

But never was a cloud so thick and black, But it might some time break, and on its track The glorious sun come streaming. Never, too, So but its threads might bleach to lighter hue, Was sorrow's mantle of so deep a dye. And he who, peering at the troubled sky, Looks past the clouds, or looks the cloud-rifts through, Or, finding none, remembers their great worth, And strikes them for himself, is that man who Shows the completest wisdom of this earth.

When one stands forth in Reason's glorious light, Stands in his own proud consciousness of right, Laments his faults, his virtues does not boast, Studies all creatures--and himself the most-- Knowing the way wherewith his faults to meet, Or, vanquished by them, owning his defeat, He pays the penalty as should true men, And pitches battle with the foe again; When, giving all their proper due and heed, He yet has power, when such shall be the need, To go his way, unshackled, true, and free, And bid the world go hanged, if needs must be, He strikes a rift for his unfearing eye Through the black cloud of low servility: A cloud that's decked the Orient all these years; 'Neath whose low-bending folds, 'mid groans and tears, Priestcraft has heaped its huge, ill-gotten gains, And tyrants forged their bloody, clanking chains; A cloud, that when the _Mayflower's_ precious cup The misty, treacherous deep held proudly up, By waves that leaped and dashed each other o'er, But onward still the ark of Freedom bore, Some fair and peaceful Ararat to find, Plumed its black wings, and swept not far behind. To-day it lowers o'er this great, free land-- O'er farms and workshops, offices and spires-- Its baleful shadow casts on every hand, And darkens Church and State and household fires.

It is a thing to pity and to blame, A useless, vile, humiliating shame, A silent slander on the Heaven-born soul, Decked with the signet of its own control, A flaw upon the image of our God, When men, obedient to some Mogul's nod-- When men, the sockets of whose addled brains Are blessed with some illuminate remains Wherefrom the glim of reason still is shed, Blow out the light, and send their wits to bed; And, taking as their sole dictator, then. Some little, thundering god of speech or pen, Aping submissively the smile or frown Of some great brazen face that beats them down, Or silenced by some lubricated tongue, Covered with borrowed words and neatly hung-- They yield their judgments up to others' wills, And take grave creeds like sugar-coated pills; And, with their weakness tacitly confessed, Like the unfeathered fledgelings of a nest, When the old bird comes home with worms and flies-- With half a smile and half a knowing frown, They open wide their mouths, and shut their eyes, And seem to murmur softly, "_Drop it down_."

He who will creep about some great man's feet, The honeyed fragrance of his breath to meet, Or follow him about, with crafty plan, And cringe for smiles and favors, is no man. A fraction of a man, and all his own, Although his numerator be but one, With unity divided up so fine That thousands range themselves beneath the line-- Ay, one so insignificantly small That quick accountants count him not at all-- Is better far, and vastly nobler, too, Than some great swelling cipher among men, Naught of itself, and nothing else to do Except to help some little one count ten!

Let us e'en strike, with courage true endowed, Straight at the centre of this murky cloud, And sweep its worthless vapor from the earth. Take sense for coin; opinions at their worth; Conviction at its cost; dictation, when Our minds and souls are bankrupt--hardly then! When Freedom's sons and daughters will do this, Our land will know a day of happiness, Fit for such joy as never yet was seen, E'en when Emancipation tried her keen Bright blade upon the galling chains of steel, And stamped the action with the nation's seal. E'en when the cable its initial spark Brought flashing through the ocean's deep and dark; E'en when was fixed, with far-resounding strokes, With song, and praise, and thankfulness, and mirth, The golden fastening of the chain that yokes The two great restless oceans of the earth!

But over all, and round about us spread, Hangs the black cloud of Death: a thunder-head, Yet ominously silent; moving on, While from its threatening folds, so deep and dark, The forkèd lightning, ever and anon, Shoots for some life, and never fails its mark.

There was one classmate is not here to-day; Many an oak is blasted on its way, Many a growing hope is overthrown. What might have been, his early growth had shown, What was, our love and tears for him may tell; He lived, he toiled, he faded, and he fell. When our friend lay within that narrow room Men call a coffin--in its cheerless gloom Himself the only tenant, and asleep In a long slumber, terrible and deep; When at the open door his pale, sad face Appeared to us, without a look or trace Of recognition in its ghastly hue, Soon to be hid forever from our view; When, with his sightless eyes to heaven upturned, Wherefrom his royal soul upon them burned. He waited for his last rites to be said, With the pathetic patience of the dead; When tenderly his manly form we lay In its last couch, with covering of clay; Who in that mournful duty had a part, But felt the cloud of Death upon his heart? But when we thought how his unfettered soul, Free from his poor sick body's weak control, Pluming its wings at the Eternal throne, Might take through realms of space its rapid flight, And find a million joys to us unknown, The cloud was rifted by a ray of light.

Old class of '69! together, still, We've journeyed up the rough and toilsome hill; Seeking the gems to labor ne'er denied, Plucking the fruits that deck the mountain-side. Now, in the glory of this summer day, We part, and each one goes his different way. Let each, with hope to fire his yearning soul, Still hurry onward to the shining goal. The way at times may dark and weary seem, No ray of sunshine on our path may beam, The dark clouds hover o'er us like a pall, And gloom and sadness seem to compass all; But still, with honest purpose, toil we on; And if our steps be upright, straight, and true. Far in the east a golden light shall dawn, And the bright smile of God come bursting through.

BROTHERS AND FRIENDS.

[REUNION OF [Greek: Adelphoi kai philoi] SOCIETY, JUNE 16, 1875.]

Would I might utter all my heart can feel! But there are thoughts weak words will not reveal; The rarest fruitage is the last to fall; The strongest language hath no words at all.

When first the uncouth student comes in sight-- A sturdy plant, just struggling toward the light-- And timidly invades his classic home, And gazes at the high-perched college dome, Striving, through eyes with a vague yearning dim, To spy some future glory there for him, A child in thought, a man in strong desire, A clod of clay, vexed by a restless fire,