He said: "It is God's way: His will, not ours be done. " And o'er our land a shadow lay That darkened all the sun. The voice of jubilee That gladdened all the air, Fell sudden to a quavering key Of suppliance and prayer.
He was our chief -- our guide -- Sprung of our common Earth, From youth's long struggle proved and tried To manhood's highest worth: Through toil, he knew all needs Of all his toiling kind -- The favored striver who succeeds -- The one who falls behind.
The boy's young faith he still Retained through years mature -- The faith to labor, hand and will, Nor doubt the harvest sure -- The harvest of man's love -- A nation's joy that swells To heights of Song, or deeps whereof But sacred silence tells.
To him his Country seemed Even as a Mother, where He rested -- slept; and once he dreamed -- As on her bosom there -- And thrilled to hear, within That dream of her, the call Of bugles and the clang and din Of war. And o'er it all
His rapt eyes caught the bright Old Banner, winging wild And beck'ning him, as to the fight. When -- even as a child -- He wakened -- And the dream Was real! And he leapt As led the proud Flag through a gleam Of tears the Mother wept.
His was a tender hand -- Even as a woman's is -- And yet as fixed, in Right's command, As this bronze hand of his: This was the Soldier brave -- This was the Victor fair -- This is the Hero Heaven gave To glory here -- and There.
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