Where'er the summons found them, whate'er the tie that bound them,
'Tis this alone the record of the sleeping army saith:--
They knew no creed but this, in duty not to falter,
With strength that naught could alter to be faithful unto death.
'Tis this alone the record of the sleeping army saith:--
They knew no creed but this, in duty not to falter,
With strength that naught could alter to be faithful unto death.
Matthews - Poems of American Patriotism
"
For the soul of the soldier's story and the heart of the sailor's song
Are all of those who meet their foes as right should meet with wrong,
Who fight their guns till the foeman runs, and then, on the
decks they trod,
Brave faces raise, and give the praise to the grace of their
country's God!
Yes, it is good to battle, and good to be strong and free,
To carry the hearts of a people to the uttermost ends of sea,
To see the day steal up the bay, where the enemy lies in wait,
To run your ship to the harbor's lip and sink her across the strait:--
But better the golden evening when the ships round heads for home,
And the long gray miles slip swiftly past in a swirl of seething foam,
And the people wait at the haven's gate to greet the men who win!
Thank God for peace! Thank God for peace, when the great
gray ships come in!
AD FINEM FIDELES
GUY WETMORE CARRYL
[Sidenote: 1898]
_This was written just after the end of the war with Spain for
the freeing of Cuba. _
Far out, far out they lie. Like stricken women weeping,
Eternal vigil keeping with slow and silent tread--
Soft-shod as are the fairies, the winds patrol the prairies,
The sentinels of God about the pale and patient dead!
Above them, as they slumber in graves that none may number,
Dawns grow to day, days dim to dusk, and dusks in darkness
pass;
Unheeded springs are born, unheeded summers brighten,
And winters wait to whiten the wilderness of grass.
Slow stride appointed years across their bivouac places,
With stern, devoted faces they lie, as when they lay,
In long battalions dreaming, till dawn, to eastward gleaming,
Awoke the clarion greeting of the bugles to the day.
The still and stealthy speeding of the pilgrim days unheeding,
At rest upon the roadway that their feet unfaltering trod,
The faithful unto death abide, with trust unshaken,
The morn when they shall waken to the reveille of God.
The faithful unto death! Their sleeping-places over
The torn and trampled clover to braver beauty blows;
Of all their grim campaigning no sight or sound remaining,
The memory of them mutely to greater glory grows.
Through waning ages winding, new inspiration finding,
Their creed of consecration like a silver ribbon runs,
Sole relic of the strife that woke the world to wonder
With riot and the thunder of a sundered people's guns.
What matters now the cause? As little children resting,
No more the battle breasting to the rumble of the drums,
Enlinked by duty's tether, the blue and gray together,
They wait the great hereafter when the last assembly comes.
Where'er the summons found them, whate'er the tie that bound them,
'Tis this alone the record of the sleeping army saith:--
They knew no creed but this, in duty not to falter,
With strength that naught could alter to be faithful unto death.
GROVER CLEVELAND
JOEL BENTON
[Sidenote: 1837-1908]
_On June 24, 1908, Grover Cleveland, twice President of the
United States, died at his home in Princeton, N. J. , at the age of
seventy-one. _
Bring cypress, rosemary and rue
For him who kept his rudder true;
Who held to right the people's will,
And for whose foes we love him still.
A man of Plutarch's marble mould,
Of virtues strong and manifold,
Who spurned the incense of the hour,
And made the nation's weal his dower.
His sturdy, rugged sense of right
Put selfish purpose out of sight;
Slowly he thought, but long and well,
With temper imperturbable.
Bring cypress, rosemary and rue
For him who kept his rudder true;
Who went at dawn to that high star
Where Washington and Lincoln are.
ATOAST TO OUR NATIVE LAND
ROBERT BRIDGES
[Sidenote: Paris, July 4, 1900]
Huge and alert, irascible yet strong,
We make our fitful way 'mid right and wrong.
One time we pour out millions to be free,
Then rashly sweep an empire from the sea!
One time we strike the shackles from the slaves,
And then, quiescent, we are ruled by knaves.
Often we rudely break restraining bars,
And confidently reach out toward the stars.
Yet under all there flows a hidden stream
Sprung from the Rock of Freedom, the great dream
Of Washington and Franklin, men of old
Who knew that freedom is not bought with gold.
This is the Land we love, our heritage,
Strange mixture of the gross and fine, yet sage
And full of promise--destined to be great.
Drink to Our Native Land! God Bless the State!
For the soul of the soldier's story and the heart of the sailor's song
Are all of those who meet their foes as right should meet with wrong,
Who fight their guns till the foeman runs, and then, on the
decks they trod,
Brave faces raise, and give the praise to the grace of their
country's God!
Yes, it is good to battle, and good to be strong and free,
To carry the hearts of a people to the uttermost ends of sea,
To see the day steal up the bay, where the enemy lies in wait,
To run your ship to the harbor's lip and sink her across the strait:--
But better the golden evening when the ships round heads for home,
And the long gray miles slip swiftly past in a swirl of seething foam,
And the people wait at the haven's gate to greet the men who win!
Thank God for peace! Thank God for peace, when the great
gray ships come in!
AD FINEM FIDELES
GUY WETMORE CARRYL
[Sidenote: 1898]
_This was written just after the end of the war with Spain for
the freeing of Cuba. _
Far out, far out they lie. Like stricken women weeping,
Eternal vigil keeping with slow and silent tread--
Soft-shod as are the fairies, the winds patrol the prairies,
The sentinels of God about the pale and patient dead!
Above them, as they slumber in graves that none may number,
Dawns grow to day, days dim to dusk, and dusks in darkness
pass;
Unheeded springs are born, unheeded summers brighten,
And winters wait to whiten the wilderness of grass.
Slow stride appointed years across their bivouac places,
With stern, devoted faces they lie, as when they lay,
In long battalions dreaming, till dawn, to eastward gleaming,
Awoke the clarion greeting of the bugles to the day.
The still and stealthy speeding of the pilgrim days unheeding,
At rest upon the roadway that their feet unfaltering trod,
The faithful unto death abide, with trust unshaken,
The morn when they shall waken to the reveille of God.
The faithful unto death! Their sleeping-places over
The torn and trampled clover to braver beauty blows;
Of all their grim campaigning no sight or sound remaining,
The memory of them mutely to greater glory grows.
Through waning ages winding, new inspiration finding,
Their creed of consecration like a silver ribbon runs,
Sole relic of the strife that woke the world to wonder
With riot and the thunder of a sundered people's guns.
What matters now the cause? As little children resting,
No more the battle breasting to the rumble of the drums,
Enlinked by duty's tether, the blue and gray together,
They wait the great hereafter when the last assembly comes.
Where'er the summons found them, whate'er the tie that bound them,
'Tis this alone the record of the sleeping army saith:--
They knew no creed but this, in duty not to falter,
With strength that naught could alter to be faithful unto death.
GROVER CLEVELAND
JOEL BENTON
[Sidenote: 1837-1908]
_On June 24, 1908, Grover Cleveland, twice President of the
United States, died at his home in Princeton, N. J. , at the age of
seventy-one. _
Bring cypress, rosemary and rue
For him who kept his rudder true;
Who held to right the people's will,
And for whose foes we love him still.
A man of Plutarch's marble mould,
Of virtues strong and manifold,
Who spurned the incense of the hour,
And made the nation's weal his dower.
His sturdy, rugged sense of right
Put selfish purpose out of sight;
Slowly he thought, but long and well,
With temper imperturbable.
Bring cypress, rosemary and rue
For him who kept his rudder true;
Who went at dawn to that high star
Where Washington and Lincoln are.
ATOAST TO OUR NATIVE LAND
ROBERT BRIDGES
[Sidenote: Paris, July 4, 1900]
Huge and alert, irascible yet strong,
We make our fitful way 'mid right and wrong.
One time we pour out millions to be free,
Then rashly sweep an empire from the sea!
One time we strike the shackles from the slaves,
And then, quiescent, we are ruled by knaves.
Often we rudely break restraining bars,
And confidently reach out toward the stars.
Yet under all there flows a hidden stream
Sprung from the Rock of Freedom, the great dream
Of Washington and Franklin, men of old
Who knew that freedom is not bought with gold.
This is the Land we love, our heritage,
Strange mixture of the gross and fine, yet sage
And full of promise--destined to be great.
Drink to Our Native Land! God Bless the State!
