Part 22

How the chargers neigh and champ, (Their riders weary of camp), With curvet and with caracole!-- The cavalry comes with thunderous tramp, And the cannons heavily roll.

And ever, flowery and gay, The Staff sweeps on in a spray Of tossing forelocks and manes; But each bridle-arm has a weed Of funeral, black as the steed That fiery Sheridan reins.

Grandest of mortal sights The sun-browned ranks to view-- The Colors ragg'd in a hundred fights, And the dusty Frocks of Blue!

And all day, mile on mile, With cheer, and waving, and smile, The war-worn legions defile Where the nation's noblest stand; And the Great Lieutenant looks on, With the Flower of a rescued Land,-- For the terrible work is done, And the Good Fight is won For God and for Fatherland.

So, from the fields they win, Our men are marching home, A million are marching home! To the cannon's thundering din, And banners on mast and dome,-- And the ships come sailing in With all their ensigns dight, As erst for a great sea-fight.

Let every color fly, Every pennon flaunt in pride; Wave, Starry Flag, on high! Float in the sunny sky, Stream o'er the stormy tide! For every stripe of stainless hue, And every star in the field of blue, Ten thousand of the brave and true Have laid them down and died.

And in all our pride to-day We think, with a tender pain, Of those so far away They will not come home again.

And our boys had fondly thought, To-day, in marching by, From the ground so dearly bought, And the fields so bravely fought, To have met their Father's eye.

But they may not see him in place, Nor their ranks be seen of him; We look for the well-known face, And the splendor is strangely dim.

Perish?--who was it said Our Leader had passed away? Dead? Our President dead? He has not died for a day!

We mourn for a little breath Such as, late or soon, dust yields; But the Dark Flower of Death Blooms in the fadeless fields.

We looked on a cold, still brow, But Lincoln could yet survive; He never was more alive, Never nearer than now.

For the pleasant season found him, Guarded by faithful hands, In the fairest of Summer Lands; With his own brave Staff around him, There our President stands.

There they are all at his side, The noble hearts and true, That did all men might do-- Then slept, with their swords and died.

And around--(for there can cease This earthly trouble)--they throng, The friends that have passed in peace, The foes that have seen their wrong.

(But, a little from the rest, With sad eyes looking down, And brows of softened frown, With stern arms on the chest, Are two, standing abreast-- Stonewall and Old John Brown.)

But the stainless and the true, These by their President stand, To look on his last review, Or march with the old command.

And lo! from a thousand fields, From all the old battle-haunts, A greater Army than Sherman wields, A grander Review than Grant's!

Gathered home from the grave, Risen from sun and rain-- Rescued from wind and wave Out of the stormy main-- The Legions of our Brave Are all in their lines again!

Many a stout Corps that went, Full-ranked, from camp and tent, And brought back a brigade; Many a brave regiment, That mustered only a squad.

The lost battalions, That, when the fight went wrong, Stood and died at their guns,-- The stormers steady and strong,

With their best blood that bought Scrap, and ravelin, and wall,-- The companies that fought Till a corporal's guard was all.

Many a valiant crew, That passed in battle and wreck,-- Ah, so faithful and true! They died on the bloody deck, They sank in the soundless blue.

All the loyal and bold That lay on a soldier's bier,-- The stretchers borne to the rear, The hammocks lowered to the hold.

The shattered wreck we hurried, In death-fight, from deck and port,-- The Blacks that Wagner buried-- That died in the Bloody Fort!

Comrades of camp and mess, Left, as they lay, to die, In the battle's sorest stress, When the storm of fight swept by,-- They lay in the Wilderness, Ah, where did they not lie?

In the tangled swamp they lay, They lay so still on the sward!-- They rolled in the sick-bay, Moaning their lives away-- They flushed in the fevered ward.

They rotted in Libby yonder, They starved in the foul stockade-- Hearing afar the thunder Of the Union cannonade!