Part 22

All lost! a nation weeps; By all the tears that fall, He loses naught who conscience keeps, Lee's honor saves us all.

All lost! but e'en defeat Hath triumphs of her own, Wrong's paean hath no note so sweet As trampled Right's proud moan.

The world shall yet decide, In truth's clear, far-off light, That the soldiers who wore the gray, and died With Lee, were in the right.

And men, by time made wise, Shall in the future see No name hath risen, or ever shall rise, Like the name of Robert Lee.

Ah, me! my words are weak, This task surpasses me; Dead soldiers! rise from your graves and speak, And tell how you loved Lee.

The banner you bore is furled, And the gray is faded, too! But in all the colors that deck the world Your gray blends not with blue.

The colors are far apart, Graves sever them in twain; The Northern heart and the Southern heart May beat in peace again;

But still till time's last day, Whatever lips may plight, The blue is blue, but the gray is gray, Wrong never accords with Right.

Go, Glory! and forever guard Our chieftain's hallowed dust; And Honor! keep eternal ward! And Fame! be this thy trust!

Go! with your bright emblazoned scroll And tell the years to be, The first of names that flash your roll Is ours -- great Robert Lee.

Lee wore the gray! since then 'Tis Right's and Honor's hue! He honored it, that man of men, And wrapped it round the true.

Dead! but his spirit breathes! Dead! but his heart is ours! Dead! but his sunny and sad land wreathes His crown with tears for flowers.

A statue for his tomb! Mould it of marble white! For Wrong, a spectre of death and doom; An angel of hope for Right.

But Lee has a thousand graves In a thousand hearts, I ween; And teardrops fall from our eyes in waves That will keep his memory green.

Ah! Muse, you dare not claim A nobler man than he, Nor nobler man hath less of blame, Nor blameless man hath purer name, Nor purer name hath grander fame, Nor fame -- another Lee.

Fragments from an Epic Poem

A Mystery

His face was sad; some shadow must have hung Above his soul; its folds, now falling dark, Now almost bright; but dark or not so dark, Like cloud upon a mount, 'twas always there -- A shadow; and his face was always sad.

His eyes were changeful; for the gloom of gray Within them met and blended with the blue, And when they gazed they seemed almost to dream They looked beyond you into far-away, And often drooped; his face was always sad.

His eyes were deep; I often saw them dim, As if the edges of a cloud of tears Had gathered there, and only left a mist That made them moist and kept them ever moist. He never wept; his face was always sad.

I mean, not many saw him ever weep, And yet he seemed as one who often wept, Or always, tears that were too proud to flow In outer streams, but shrunk within and froze -- Froze down into himself; his face was sad.

And yet sometimes he smiled -- a sudden smile, As if some far-gone joy came back again, Surprised his heart, and flashed across his face A moment like a light through rifts in clouds, Which falls upon an unforgotten grave; He rarely laughed; his face was ever sad.

And when he spoke his words were sad as wails, And strange as stories of an unknown land, And full of meanings as the sea of moans. At times he was so still that silence seemed To sentinel his lips; and not a word Would leave his heart; his face was strangely sad.

But then at times his speech flowed like a stream -- A deep and dreamy stream through lonely dells Of lofty mountain-thoughts, and o'er its waves Hung mysteries of gloom; and in its flow It rippled on lone shores fair-fringed with flowers, And deepened as it flowed; his face was sad.

He had his moods of silence and of speech. I asked him once the reason, and he said: "When I speak much, my words are only words, When I speak least, my words are more than words, When I speak not, I then reveal myself!" It was his way of saying things -- he spoke In quaintest riddles; and his face was sad.

And, when he wished, he wove around his words A nameless spell that marvelously thrilled The dullest ear. 'Twas strange that he so cold Could warm the coldest heart; that he so hard Could soften hardest soul; that he so still Could rouse the stillest mind: his face was sad.

He spoke of death as if it were a toy For thought to play with; and of life he spoke As of a toy not worth the play of thought; And of this world he spoke as captives speak Of prisons where they pine; he spoke of men As one who found pure gold in each of them. He spoke of women just as if he dreamed About his mother; and he spoke of God As if he walked with Him and knew His heart -- But he was weary, and his face was sad.

He had a weary way in all he did, As if he dragged a chain, or bore a cross; And yet the weary went to him for rest. His heart seemed scarce to know an earthly joy, And yet the joyless were rejoiced by him. He seemed to have two selves -- his outer self Was free to any passer-by, and kind to all, And gentle as a child's; that outer self Kept open all its gates, that who so wished Might enter them and find therein a place; And many entered; but his face was sad.