Flashed the ardent eyes, and the spell of his silence was broken.
Proudly he spoke of the charge, in a voice that deepened and trembled
Naming dear names of the dead; then turned to the task of the living,
Motioned to enter the tent, and delivered the trust of the morrow.
So the spark of pride, in the heart of the leader beloved,
Kindled a fresh, false hope; and he sat by the flare of the candle
Planning the morrow’s course, and retrieval, if haply it might be.
(Under the same clear moon, by the flow of the far Mississippi,
Grant was waking too, the invincible taciturn soldier
Chosen of fate; in his tent, by the candle-light feeble and fitful,