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.