Out of its scabbard! never hand Waved sword from stain as free, Forth from its scabbard! How we prayed And when our triumph was delayed, Forth from its scabbard all in vain Bright flashed the sword of Lee; 'Tis shrouded now in its sheath again, It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain, Defeated, yet without a stain, Proudly and peacefully. ROBERT E. LEE1 JULIA WARD HOWE In this poem, read at the Richmond celebration of the one-hundredth anniversary of General Lee's birth, Mrs. Howe expressed the admiration of a reunited nation for one of her greatest sons. When General Lee surrendered at Appomattox on April 9, 1865, he was shown the highest respect, and at his death in 1870 the press North and South paid fitting tribute to the character of this Virginia gentleman. A GALLANT foeman in the fight, A brother when the fight was o'er, No shriek of shells nor roll of drums, To heal the cruel wounds of war. Thought may the minds of men divide, And so, thy soldier grave beside, We honor thee, Virginia's son. 1 From At Sunset. Used by permission of, and by special arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin Company. THE GETTYSBURG ADDRESS ABRAHAM LINCOLN Abraham Lincoln (1809-1865), sixteenth president of the United States, delivered this immortal address on the battle-field at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, on November 19, 1863. On that occasion the place was dedicated as a national cemetery for the soldiers who fell during the three days' conflict, July 1-3, 1863. FOUR Score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We are met to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us-that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion; that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain; that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth. THE DEATH OF LINCOLN WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT Mr. Bryant grieved deeply at the death of the President, for they had been friends from the day in 1859 when Bryant had presided at a meeting addressed by Lincoln. Lincoln said then: "It was worth the journey to the East to see such a man." But before this, in 1832, the poet had by chance seen the future president leading forth a company of Illinois volunteers across the prairie to the Black Hawk War. OH, slow to smite and swift to spare, Gentle and merciful and just! Who, in the fear of God, didst bear The sword of power, a nation's trust! In sorrow by thy bier we stand, Amid the awe that hushes all, And speak the anguish of a land Thy task is done; the bond are free: Pure was thy life; its bloody close Who perished in the cause of Right. O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN !1 WALT WHITMAN Walt Whitman (1819-1892), the "Poet of Democracy," in 1862 entered upon three years of service as a volunteer nurse in the hospitals near Washington. During this time he ministered to over one hundred thousand sick and wounded Union and Confederate soldiers. He was an ardent admirer of President Lincoln, and out of his grief over the President's tragic death came the inspiration for this beautiful elegy. O CAPTAIN ! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won, 1 From Selections from the Prose and Poetry of Walt Whitman, Small, Maynard & Co.; used by permission of the publishers and Horace Traubel. |