Part 21

Shriek shrilly o'er each day, As futureward ye fly, That the men were right who wore the gray, And Right can never die.

And the songs, with waving wing, Fly far, float far away From the ages' crest; o'er the world they fling The shade of the stainless gray.

Might! sing your triumph-songs! Each song but sounds a shame; Go down the world, in loud-voiced throngs, To win, from the future, fame.

Our ballads, born of tears, Will track you on your way, And win the hearts of the future years For the men who wore the gray.

And so -- say what you will -- In the heart of God's own laws I have a faith, and my heart believes still In the triumph of our cause.

Such hope may all be vain, And futile be such trust; But the weary eyes that weep the slain, And watch above such dust,

They cannot help but lift Their visions to the skies; They watch the clouds, but wait the rift Through which their hope shall rise.

The victor wields the sword: Its blade may broken be By a thought that sleeps in a deathless word, To wake in the years to be.

We wait a grand-voiced bard, Who, when he sings, will send Immortal songs' "Imperial Guard" The Lost Cause to defend.

He has not come; he will. But when he chants, his song Will stir the world to its depths and thrill The earth with its tale of wrong.

The fallen cause still waits -- Its bard has not come yet. His sun through one of to-morrow's gates Shall shine, but never set.

But when he comes he'll sweep A harp with tears all stringed, And the very notes he strikes will weep As they come from his hand woe-winged.

Ah! grand shall be his strain, And his songs shall fill all climes, And the rebels shall rise and march again Down the lines of his glorious rhymes.

And through his verse shall gleam The swords that flashed in vain, And the men who wore the gray shall seem To be marshaling again.

But hush! between his words Peer faces sad and pale, And you hear the sound of broken chords Beat through the poet's wail.

Through his verse the orphans cry -- The terrible undertone -- And the father's curse and the mother's sigh, And the desolate young wife's moan.

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But harps are in every land That await a voice that sings, And a master-hand -- but the humblest hand May gently touch its strings.

I sing with a voice too low To be heard beyond to-day, In minor keys of my people's woe, But my songs pass away.

To-morrow hears them not -- To-morrow belongs to Fame -- My songs, like the birds', will be forgot, And forgotten shall be my name.

And yet who knows? Betimes The grandest songs depart, While the gentle, humble, and low-toned rhymes Will echo from heart to heart.

But, oh! if in song or speech, In major or minor key, My voice could over the ages reach, I would whisper the name of Lee.

In the night of our defeat Star after star had gone, But the way was bright to our soldiers' feet Where the star of Lee led on.

But sudden there came a cloud, Out rung a nation's knell; Our cause was wrapped in its winding shroud, All fell when the great Lee fell.

From his men, with scarce a word, Silence when great hearts part! But we know he sheathed his stainless sword In the wound of a broken heart.

He fled from Fame; but Fame Sought him in his retreat, Demanding for the world one name Made deathless by defeat.

Nay, Fame! success is best! All lost! and nothing won: North, keep the clouds that flush the West, We have the sinking sun.

All lost! but by the graves Where martyred heroes rest, He wins the most who honor saves -- Success is not the test.