And you, the soldiers of our wars,
Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars,
Salute him once again,

Your late commander-slain !

So sweetly, sadly, sternly goes
The Fallen to his last repose.
Beneath no mighty dome,
But in his modest home;

The churchyard where his children rest,
The quiet spot that suits him best,

There shall his grave be made,

And there his bones be laid.

And there his countrymen shall come,
With memory proud, with pity dumb,
And strangers far and near,

For many and many a year.

For many a year and many an age,
While History on her ample page
The virtues shall enroll

Of that Paternal Soul.

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FRANCIS MILES FINCH

1827

THE author of this very popular poem was born at Ithaca, New York. In 1849 he was graduated from Yale, where he was the class poet. After practicing law in Ithaca for several years, he was elected a justice of the New York Court of Appeals. In 1892 he was appointed dean of the law school of Cornell University.

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY

By the flow of the inland river,

Whence the fleets of iron have fled,
Where the blades of the grave grass quiver,

Asleep are the ranks of the dead:

Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the one, the Blue,
Under the other, the Gray.

These in the robings of glory,
Those in the gloom of defeat,
All with the battle-blood gory,

In the dusk of eternity meet:
LONG'S AM. POEMS— -15

ΤΟ

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Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the laurel, the Blue,

Under the willow, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours

The desolate mourners go,
Lovingly laden with flowers

Alike for the friend and the foe:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the roses, the Blue,

Under the lilies, the Gray.

So with an equal splendor,
The morning sun rays fall,

With a touch impartially tender,

On the blossoms blooming for all:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Broidered with gold, the Blue,
Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the summer calleth,

On forest and field of grain,
With an equal murmur falleth
The cooling drip of the rain:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Wet with the rain, the Blue,
Wet with the rain, the Gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding,

The generous deed was done,

In the storm of the years that are fading
No braver battle was won:

Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the blossoms, the Blue,
Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war cry sever,

Or the winding rivers be red;
They banish our anger forever

When they laurel the graves of our dead!
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day:

Love and tears for the Blue,

Tears and love for the Gray.

JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE

1827

A POPULAR writer of juvenile fiction, as well as the author of two or three volumes of verse, Trowbridge was born on a farm at Ogden, New York. His educational advantages were not of the best; but he showed early an aptitude for journalism. He was in New York for a time, but soon removed to Boston, where he has spent a long life in editorial and other literary work.

THE VAGABONDS

We are two travelers, Roger and I.

Roger's my dog. - Come here, you scamp!

Jump for the gentleman, - mind your eye!

Over the table, look out for the lamp!

The rogue is growing a little old;

Five years we've tramped through wind and weather,

And slept outdoors when nights were cold,

And ate and drank- and starved-together.

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We've learned what comfort is, I tell you!
A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,

A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow !

The paw he holds up there's been frozen), Plenty of catgut for my fiddle

(This outdoor business is bad for strings),

Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle,
And Roger and I set up for kings!

Well, something hot, then, we won't quarrel.

He's thirsty, too,

see him nod his head?

What a pity, Sir, that dogs can't talk!

He understands every word that's said,

And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.

The truth is, Sir, now I reflect,

I've been so sadly given to grog,

I wonder I've not lost the respect
(Here's to you, Sir!) even of my dog.
But he sticks by, through thick and thin;
And this old coat, with its empty pockets,

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And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,

He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

There isn't another creature living

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Would do it, and prove, through every disaster,

So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving,

To such a miserable, thankless masteṛ!

No, Sir ! see him wag his tail and grin!
By George! it makes my old eyes water!

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That is, there's something in this gin

That chokes a fellow. But no matter !