The broken column, reared in air, To him who made our country great, Can almost cast its shadow where The victims of a grand despair In long, long ranks of death await The last loud trump, the judgment sun, Which comes for all, and soon or late Will come for those at Arlington.
In that vast sepulchre repose The thousands reaped from every fray; The men in blue who once uprose In battle front to smite their foes— The Spartan bands who wore the gray. The combat o’er, the death-hug done, In summer blaze or winter’s snows, They keep the truce at Arlington.
And, almost lost in myriad graves Of those who gained the unequal fight, Are mounds that hide Confederate braves, Who reck not how the north wind raves, In dazzling day or dimmest night. O’er those who lost and those who won Death holds no parley which was right— Jehovah judges Arlington.
The dead had rest; the dove of peace, Brooded o’er both with equal wings; To both had come that great surcease, The last omnipotent release From all the world’s delirious stings, To bugle deaf and signal gun They slept, like heroes of old Greece, Beneath the glebe at Arlington.
And in the Spring’s benignant reign, The sweet May woke her harp of pines, Teaching her choir a thrilling strain Of jubilee to land and main. She danced in emerald down the lines, Denying largess bright to none. She saw no difference in the signs That told who slept at Arlington.
She gave her grasses and her showers To all alike who dreamed in dust; Her song-birds wove their dainty bowers Amid the jasmine buds and flowers, And piped with an impartial trust. Waifs of the air and liberal sun! Their guileless glees were kind and just To friend and foe at Arlington.
And ’mid the generous spring there came Some women of the land who strove To make this funeral field of fame Glad as the May God’s altar flame With rosy wreaths of mutual love. Unmindful who had lost or won, They scorned the jargon of a name— No North, no South, at Arlington. James R. Randall.
A LAUGHING PHILOSOPHER.
Admiring my flowers, sir? P’raps you’d step inside the gate, and walk round my little place? It ain’t big, but there’s plenty of variety,—violets and cabbages, roses and artichokes. Any one that didn’t care for flowers ’ud be sure to find beauty in them young spring onions. People’s ideas differ very much, there ain’t a doubt of it. One man’s very happy over a glass of whiskey and water, and another thinks every thing ’ud go straight in this ’ere world if we all drank tea and lemonade. And it’s right enough: it keeps things even. We should have the world a very one-sided affair if everybody pulled the same way. Philosopher, am I? Well, I dunno. I’ve got a theory to be sure—every one has nowadays; and mine is, that there is a joke to be found in every mortal thing if only we look in the right place for it. But some people don’t know how to look for it. Why, sir, if you’ll believe it, I was talking to a man yesterday that couldn’t see any thing to laugh at in the naval demonstration.