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New York, August 8, 1885
YE living soldiers of the mighty war, | |
| Once more from roaring cannon, and the drums, | |
| And bugles blown at morn, the summons comes; | |
| Forget the halting limb, each wound and scar; | |
| Once more your Captain calls to you; | 5 |
| Come to his last review! | |
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| And come ye, too, bright spirits of the dead, | |
| Ye who flamed heavenward from the embattled field; | |
| And ye whose harder fate it was to yield | |
| Life from the loathful prison or anguished bed; | 10 |
| Dear ghosts! come join your comrades here | |
| Beside this sacred bier! | |
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| Nor be ye absent, ye immortal band,— | |
| Warriors of ages past, and our own age,— | |
| Who drew the sword for right, and not in rage, | 15 |
| Made war that peace might live in all the land, | |
| Nor ever struck one vengeful blow, | |
| But helped the fallen foe. | |
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| And fail not ye,—but, ah, ye falter not | |
| To join his army of the dead and living,— | 20 |
| Ye who once felt his might, and his forgiving; | |
| Brothers, whom more in love than hate he smote. | |
| For all his countrymen make room | |
| By our great hero’s tomb! | |
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| Come soldiers—not to battle as of yore, | 25 |
| 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. | 30 |
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| All’s over now; here let our Captain rest, | |
| Silent among 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 | 35 |
| To make them brave as he;— | |
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| 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, | 40 |
| And they together saved the state, | |
| And made it free and great. | |
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