And you, the soldiers of our wars,
Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars,
Salute him once again,
Your late commander—slain!
Yes, let your tears, indignant, fall,
But leave your muskets on the wall:
Your country needs you now
Beside the forge, the plough!
(When justice shall unsheathe her brand,—
If mercy may not stay her hand,
Nor would we have it so—
She must direct the blow!)
And you, amid the master-race,
Who seem so strangely out of place,
Know ye who cometh? He
Who hath declared ye free!
Bow while the body passes—nay,
Fall on your knees, and weep, and pray!
Weep, weep—I would ye might—
Your poor, black faces white!
And children, you must come in bands,
With garlands in your little hands,
Of blue, and white, and red,
To strew before the dead!
So sweetly, sadly, sternly goes
The fallen to his last repose:
Beneath no mighty dome.
But in his modest home;
The churchyard where his children rest,
The quiet spot that suits him best:
There shall his grave be made,
And there his bones be laid!
And there his countrymen shall come,
With memory proud, with pity dumb,
And strangers far and near,
For many and many a year!
For many a year, and many an age,
While history on her ample page
The virtues shall enroll
Of that paternal soul!