Bravely they fought who failed to win,-- Our leaders battle-scarred,-- Fighting the hosts of h.e.l.l and sin, But devils die always hard!

Blame not the broken tools of G.o.d That helped our sorest needs; Through paths that martyr feet have trod The conqueror's steps He leads.

But now the heavens grow black with doubt, The ravens fill the sky, "Friends" plot within, foes storm without, Hark,--that despairing cry, "Where is the heart, the hand, the brain To dare, to do, to plan?"

The bleeding Nation shrieks in vain,-- She has not found her man!

A little echo stirs the air,-- Some tale, whate'er it be, Of rebels routed in their lair Along the Tennessee.

The little echo spreads and grows, And soon the trump of Fame Has taught the Nation's friends and foes The "man on horseback"'s name.

So well his warlike wooing sped, No fortress might resist His billets-doux of lisping lead, The bayonets in his fist,-- With kisses from his cannons' mouth He made his pa.s.sion known Till Vicksburg, vestal of the South, Unbound her virgin zone.

And still where'er his banners led He conquered as he came, The trembling hosts of treason fled Before his breath of flame, And Fame's still gathering echoes grew Till high o'er Richmond's towers The starry fold of Freedom flew, And all the land was ours.

Welcome from fields where valor fought To feasts where pleasure waits; A Nation gives you smiles unbought At all her opening gates!

Forgive us when we press your hand,-- Your war-worn features scan,-- G.o.d sent you to a bleeding land; Our Nation found its man!

TO H. W. LONGFELLOW

BEFORE HIS DEPARTURE FOR EUROPE, MAY 27, 1868

OUR Poet, who has taught the Western breeze To waft his songs before him o'er the seas, Will find them wheresoe'er his wanderings reach Borne on the spreading tide of English speech Twin with the rhythmic waves that kiss the farthest beach.

Where shall the singing bird a stranger be That finds a nest for him in every tree?

How shall he travel who can never go Where his own voice the echoes do not know, Where his own garden flowers no longer learn to grow?

Ah! gentlest soul! how gracious, how benign Breathes through our troubled life that voice of thine, Filled with a sweetness born of happier spheres, That wins and warms, that kindles, softens, cheers, That calms the wildest woe and stays the bitterest tears!

Forgive the simple words that sound like praise; The mist before me dims my gilded phrase; Our speech at best is half alive and cold, And save that tenderer moments make us bold Our whitening lips would close, their truest truth untold.

We who behold our autumn sun below The Scorpion's sign, against the Archer's bow, Know well what parting means of friend from friend; After the snows no freshening dews descend, And what the frost has marred, the sunshine will not mend.

So we all count the months, the weeks, the days, That keep thee from us in unwonted ways, Grudging to alien hearths our widowed time; And one has shaped a breath in artless rhyme That sighs, "We track thee still through each remotest clime."

What wishes, longings, blessings, prayers shall be The more than golden freight that floats with thee!

And know, whatever welcome thou shalt find,-- Thou who hast won the hearts of half mankind,-- The proudest, fondest love thou leavest still behind!

TO CHRISTIAN GOTTFRIED EHRENBERG

FOR HIS "JUBILAEUM" AT BERLIN, NOVEMBER 5, 1868

This poem was written at the suggestion of Mr. George Bancroft, the historian.

THOU who hast taught the teachers of mankind How from the least of things the mightiest grow, What marvel jealous Nature made thee blind, Lest man should learn what angels long to know?

Thou in the flinty rock, the river's flow, In the thick-moted sunbeam's sifted light Hast trained thy downward-pointed tube to show Worlds within worlds unveiled to mortal sight, Even as the patient watchers of the night,-- The cyclope gleaners of the fruitful skies,-- Show the wide misty way where heaven is white All paved with suns that daze our wondering eyes.

Far o'er the stormy deep an empire lies, Beyond the storied islands of the blest, That waits to see the lingering day-star rise; The forest-tinctured Eden of the West; Whose queen, fair Freedom, twines her iron crest With leaves from every wreath that mortals wear, But loves the sober garland ever best That science lends the sage's silvered hair;-- Science, who makes life's heritage more fair, Forging for every lock its mastering key, Filling with life and hope the stagnant air, Pouring the light of Heaven o'er land and sea!

From her unsceptred realm we come to thee, Bearing our slender tribute in our hands; Deem it not worthless, humble though it be, Set by the larger gifts of older lands The smallest fibres weave the strongest bands,-- In narrowest tubes the sovereign nerves are spun,-- A little cord along the deep sea-sands Makes the live thought of severed nations one Thy fame has journeyed westering with the sun, Prairies and lone sierras know thy name And the long day of service n.o.bly done That crowns thy darkened evening with its flame!

One with the grateful world, we own thy claim,-- Nay, rather claim our right to join the throng Who come with varied tongues, but hearts the same, To hail thy festal morn with smiles and song; Ah, happy they to whom the joys belong Of peaceful triumphs that can never die From History's record,--not of gilded wrong, But golden truths that, while the world goes by With all its empty pageant, blazoned high Around the Master's name forever shine So shines thy name illumined in the sky,-- Such joys, such triumphs, such remembrance thine!

A TOAST TO WILKIE COLLINS

FEBRUARY 16, 1874

THE painter's and the poet's fame Shed their twinned l.u.s.tre round his name, To gild our story-teller's art, Where each in turn must play his part.

What scenes from Wilkie's pencil sprung, The minstrel saw but left unsung!

What shapes the pen of Collins drew, No painter clad in living hue!

But on our artist's shadowy screen A stranger miracle is seen Than priest unveils or pilgrim seeks,-- The poem breathes, the picture speaks!

And so his double name comes true, They christened better than they knew, And Art proclaims him twice her son,-- Painter and poet, both in one!

MEMORIAL VERSES

FOR THE SERVICES IN MEMORY OF

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

CITY OF BOSTON, JUNE 1, 1865

CHORAL: "LUTHER'S JUDGMENT HYMN."

O THOU of soul and sense and breath The ever-present Giver, Unto thy mighty Angel, Death, All flesh thou dost deliver; What most we cherish we resign, For life and death alike are thine, Who reignest Lord forever!

Our hearts lie buried in the dust With him so true and tender, The patriot's stay, the people's trust, The shield of the offender; Yet every murmuring voice is still, As, bowing to thy sovereign will, Our best-loved we surrender.

Dear Lord, with pitying eye behold This martyr generation, Which thou, through trials manifold, Art showing thy salvation Oh let the blood by murder spilt Wash out thy stricken children's guilt And sanctify our nation!

Be thou thy orphaned Israel's friend, Forsake thy people never, In One our broken Many blend, That none again may sever!

Hear us, O Father, while we raise With trembling lips our song of praise, And bless thy name forever!