It is a politician man—
He draweth near his end,
And friends weep round that partisan,
Of every man the friend.
Between the Known and the Unknown
He lieth on the strand;
The light upon the sea is thrown
That lay upon the land.
It shineth in his glazing eye,
It burneth on his face;
God send that when we come to die
We know that sign of grace!
Upon his lips his blessed sprite
Poiseth her joyous wing.
“How is it with thee, child of light?
Dost hear the angels sing?”
“The song I hear, the crown I see,
And know that God is love.
Farewell, dark world—I go to
be
A postmaster above!”
For him no monumental arch,
But, O, ’tis good and
brave
To see the Grand Old Party march
To office o’er his grave!
THE DEATH OF GRANT.
Father! whose hard and cruel law
Is part of thy compassion’s
plan,
Thy works presumptuously we
scan
For what the prophets say they saw.
Unbidden still the awful slope
Walling us in we climb to
gain
Assurance of the shining plain
That faith has certified to hope.
In vain!—beyond the circling
hill
The shadow and the cloud abide.
Subdue the doubt, our spirits
guide
To trust the Record and be still.
To trust it loyally as he
Who, heedful of his high design,
Ne’er raised a seeking
eye to thine,
But wrought thy will unconsciously,
Disputing not of chance or fate,
Nor questioning of cause or
creed;
For anything but duty’s
deed
Too simply wise, too humbly great.
The cannon syllabled his name;
His shadow shifted o’er
the land,
Portentous, as at his command
Successive cities sprang to flame!
He fringed the continent with fire,
The rivers ran in lines of
light!
Thy will be done on earth—if
right
Or wrong he cared not to inquire.
His was the heavy hand, and his
The service of the despot
blade;
His the soft answer that allayed
War’s giant animosities.
Let us have peace: our clouded eyes,
Fill, Father, with another
light,
That we may see with clearer
sight
Thy servant’s soul in Paradise.
