“NO MORE THE THUNDER OF CANNON”
No more the thunder of cannon, No more the clashing of swords, No more the rage of the contest, Nor the rush of contending hordes; But, instead, the glad reunion, The clasping of friendly hands, The song, for the shout of battle, Heard over the waiting lands.
O brothers, to-night we greet you With smiles, half sad, half gay— For our thoughts are flying backward To the years so far away— When with you who were part of the conflict, With us who remember it all, Youth marched with his waving banner, And his voice like a bugle call!
We would not turn back the dial, Nor live over the past again; We would not the path re-travel, Nor barter the “now” for the “then.” Yet, oh, for the bounding pulses, And the strength to do and dare, When life was one grand endeavor, And work clasped hands with prayer!
But blessed are ye, O brothers, Who feel in your souls alway The thrill of the stirring summons You heard but to obey; Who, whether the years go swift, Or whether the years go slow, Will wear in your hearts forever The glory of long ago!
GRANT
August 8, 1885
God sends his angels where he will, From world to world, from star to star; They do his bidding as they fly, Whether or near or far!
Whither it went, or what its quest, I know not; but one August day A great white angel through the far Dim spaces took its way;
Until below it our fair earth, Like a rich jewel fitly hung— An emerald set with silver gleams— In the blue ether swung.
The angel looked; the angel paused; Then down the starry pathway swept, Till mount and valley, hill and plain, Beneath its vision slept.
Poised on a far blue mountain peak, It saw the land, from sea to sea, Lifting in veilèd splendor up The banner of the free!
From tower and turret, spire and dome, From stately halls, and cabins rude, Where crag and cliff and forest meet In awful solitude,
It saw strange, sombre pennants float, Black shadows on the summer breeze That bore, from shore to shore, the wail Of solemn symphonies.
It saw long files of armèd men, Clad in a garb of faded blue, Pass up and down the sorrowing land As if in grand review.
It saw through crowded city streets, Funereal trains move to and fro, With tolling bells, and muffled drums, And trumpets wailing low.
Descending then the angel sought A stern, sad man of many cares— Ah, oft before have mortals talked With angels, unawares!
The angel spake, as man to man— “What does it mean, O friend?” it cried, “These sad-browed hosts, these weeds of woe, This mourning far and wide?”
The stranger answered in amaze— “Know you not what the whole world knows? To his long home, thus grandly borne, Earth’s greatest warrior goes.
The foremost soldier of his age, The victor on full many a field— Who saw the bravest of the brave To his stern prowess yield.”
The angel sighed. “That means,” it said, “Tumult and anguish, pain and death, And countless sons of men borne down By the fierce cannon’s breath!”
Then passed from sight the heavenly guest, And from the mountain-top again Took its far flight from North to South, Above the homes of men.
But still, where’er it went, it saw The starry banners half mast high, And tower and turret hung with black Against the reddening sky!
Still saw long ranks of armèd men Who for the blue had worn the gray— Still saw the sad processions pass, Darkening the summer day!
“Was this their conqueror whom you mourn?” The angel said to one who kept Lone watch where, deep in grass-grown graves, Young Southern soldiers slept.
“Victor, yet friend,” the answer came, “Even theirs who here their life-blood poured! He, when the bitter field was won, Was first to sheathe the sword,
And cry: ‘O brothers, take my hand— Brave foemen, let us be at peace! O’er all the undivided land Let clash of conflict cease!’”
The wondering angel went its way From world to world, from star to star, Where planet unto planet turned, And suns blazed out afar.
“Learn, learn, O universe,” it cried, “How great is he whose foemen lay Their love and homage at his feet, On this—his burial day!”