Poems of American Patriotism Part 19

GRANT

H. C. BUNNER

[Sidenote: 1822, 1885]

_This was written on the day of Grant's death, July 23._

Smile on, thou new-come Spring--if on thy breeze The breath of a great man go wavering up And out of this world's knowledge, it is well.

Kindle with thy green flame the stricken trees, And fire the rose's many-petaled cup, Let bough and branch with quickening life-blood swell-- But Death shall touch his spirit with a life That knows not years or seasons. Oh, how small Thy little hour of bloom! Thy leaves shall fall, And be the sport of winter winds at strife; But he has taken on eternity.

Yea, of how much this Death doth set him free!-- Now are we one to love him, once again.

The tie that bound him to our bitterest pain Draws him more close to Love and Memory.

O Spring, with all thy sweetheart frolics, say, Hast thou remembrance of those earlier springs When we wept answer to the laughing day, And turned aside from green and gracious things?

There was a sound of weeping over all-- Mothers uncomforted, for their sons were not; And there was crueler silence: tears grew hot In the true eyes that would not let them fall.

Up from the South came a great wave of sorrow That drowned our hearthstones, splashed with blood our sills; To-day, that spared, made terrible To-morrow With thick presentiment of coming ills.

Only we knew the Right--but oh, how strong, How pitiless, how insatiable the Wrong!

And then the quivering sword-hilt found a hand That knew not how to falter or grow weak; And we looked on, from end to end the land, And felt the heart spring up, and rise afresh The blood of courage to the whitened cheek, And fire of battle thrill the numbing flesh.

Ay, there was death, and pain, and dear ones missed, And lips forever to grow pale unkissed; But lo, the man was here, and this was he; And at his hands Faith gave us victory.

Spring, thy poor life, that mocks his body's death, Is but a candle's flame, a flower's breath.

He lives in days that suffering made dear Beyond all garnered beauty of the year.

He lives in all of us that shall outlive

The sensuous things that paltry time can give.

This Spring the spirit of his broken age Across the threshold of its anguish stole-- All of him that was n.o.ble, fearless, sage, Lives in his loved nation's strengthened soul.

THE BURIAL OF SHERMAN

RICHARD WATSON GILDER

[Sidenote: 1820, 1891]

_Sherman died on January 14. His funeral took place two days later. The statue by Saint Gaudens was unveiled in New York in 1903._

Glory and honor and fame and everlasting laudation For our captains who loved not war, but fought for the life of the nation; Who knew that, in all the land, one slave meant strife, not peace; Who fought for freedom, not glory; made war that war might cease.

Glory and honor and fame; the beating of m.u.f.fled drums; The wailing funeral dirge, as the flag-wrapt coffin comes.

Fame and honor and glory, and joy for a n.o.ble soul; For a full and splendid life, and laurelled rest at the goal.

Glory and honor and fame; the pomp that a soldier prizes; The league-long waving line as the marching falls and rises; Rumbling of caissons and guns; the clatter of horses' feet, And a million awe-struck faces far down the waiting street.

But better than martial woe, and the pageant of civic sorrow; Better than praise of to-day, or the statue we build to-morrow; Better than honor and glory, and History's iron pen, Was the thought of duty done and the love of his fellow-men.

THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS

JOHN JEROME ROONEY

[Sidenote: 1898]

_The high quality of American marksmans.h.i.+p was never more conclusively shown than in the battle of Santiago._

A cheer and salute for the Admiral, and here's to the Captain bold, And never forget the Commodore's debt when the deeds of might are told!

They stand to the deck through the battle's wreck when the great sh.e.l.ls roar and screech-- And never they fear when the foe is near to practise what they preach: But off with your hat and three times three for Columbia's true-blue sons, The men below who batter the foe--the men behind the guns!

Oh, light and merry of heart are they when they swing into port once more, When, with more than enough of the "greenbacked stuff,"

they start for their leave-o'-sh.o.r.e; And you'd think, perhaps, that the blue-bloused chaps who loll along the street Are a tender bit, with salt on it, for some fierce "mustache"

to eat-- Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and fairly stuns The modest worth of the sailor boys--the lads who serve the guns.

But say not a word till the shot is heard that tells that the fight is on, Till the long, deep roar grows more and more from the s.h.i.+ps of "Yank" and "Don,"

Till over the deep the tempests sweep of fire and bursting sh.e.l.l, And the very air is a mad Despair in the throes of a living h.e.l.l; Then down, deep down, in the mighty s.h.i.+p, unseen by the midday suns, You'll find the chaps who are giving the raps--the men behind the guns!

Oh, well they know how the cyclones blow that they loose from their cloud of death, And they know is heard the thunder-word their fierce ten-incher saith!

The steel decks rock with the lightning shock, and shake with the great recoil, And the sea grows red with the blood of the dead and reaches for his spoil-- But not till the foe has gone below or turns his prow and runs, Shall the voice of peace bring sweet release to the men behind the guns!

THE REGULAR ARMY MAN

JOSEPH C. LINCOLN

[Sidenote: 1898]

He ain't no gold-laced "Belvidere,"

To sparkle in the sun; He don't parade with gay c.o.c.kade, And posies in his gun; He ain't no "pretty soldier boy,"

So lovely, spick and span,-- He wears a crust of tan and dust, The Regular Army man; The marching, parching, Pipe-clay starching, Regular Army man.

He ain't at home in Sunday-school, Nor yet a social tea, And on the day he gets his pay He's apt to spend it free; He ain't no temperance advocate, He likes to fill the can, He's kind of rough, and, maybe, tough, The Regular Army man; The r'aring, tearing, Sometimes swearing, Regular Army man.

No State'll call him "n.o.ble son,"

He ain't no ladies' pet, But, let a row start anyhow, They'll send for him, you bet!

He don't cut any ice at all In Fas.h.i.+on's social plan, He gets the job to face a mob, The Regular Army man; The milling, drilling, Made for killing, Regular Army man.

There ain't no tears shed over him When he goes off to war, He gets no speech nor prayerful preach From mayor or governor; He packs his little knapsack up And trots off in the van, To start the fight and start it right, The Regular Army man; The rattling, battling, Colt or Gatling, Regular Army man.

He makes no fuss about the job, He don't talk big or brave, He knows he's in to fight and win, Or help fill up a grave; He ain't no Mama's darling, but He does the best he can, And he's the chap that wins the sc.r.a.p, The Regular Army man; The dandy, handy, Cool and sandy, Regular Army man.