When the warrior's sword is lowered
Ere its stainless sheen grows dim,
The bard flings forth its dying gleam
On the wings of a deathless hymn.
Songs, fly far o'er the world
And adown to the end of time:
Let the sword still flash, tho' its flag be furled,
Thro' the sheen of the poet's rhyme.
Songs! fly as the eagles fly!
The bard unbars the cage;
Go, soar away, and afar and high
Wave your wings o'er every age.
Shriek shrilly o'er each day,
As futureward ye fly,
That the men were right who wore the gray,
And Right can never die.
And the songs, with waving wing,
Fly far, float far away
From the ages' crest; o'er the world they fling
The shade of the stainless gray.
Might! sing your triumph-songs!
Each song but sounds a shame;
Go down the world, in loud-voiced throngs,
To win, from the future, fame.
Our ballads, born of tears,
Will track you on your way,
And win the hearts of the future years
For the men who wore the gray.
And so — say what you will —
In the heart of God's own laws
I have a faith, and my heart believes still
In the triumph of our cause.
Such hope may all be vain,
And futile be such trust;
But the weary eyes that weep the slain,
And watch above such dust,
They cannot help but lift
Their visions to the skies;
They watch the clouds, but wait the rift
Through which their hope shall rise.