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The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 16, No. 96, October 1865
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Год написания книги
2019
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Hush! let our heavy souls
To-day be glad; for agen
The stormy music swells and rolls
Stirring the hearts of men.
And under the Nation's Dome,
They've guarded so well and long,
Our boys come marching home,
Two hundred thousand strong.
All in the pleasant month of May,
With war-worn colors and drums,
Still, through the livelong summer's day,
Regiment, regiment comes.
Like the tide, yesty and barmy,
That sets on a wild lee-shore,
Surge the ranks of an army
Never reviewed before!
Who shall look on the like agen,
Or see such host of the brave?
A mighty River of marching men
Rolls the Capital through,—
Rank on rank, and wave on wave,
Of bayonet-crested blue!
How the chargers neigh and champ,
(Their riders weary of camp,)
With curvet and with caracole!—
The cavalry comes with thundrous tramp,
And the cannons heavily roll.
And ever, flowery and gay,
The Staff sweeps on in a spray
Of tossing forelocks and manes;
But each bridle-arm has a weed
Of funeral, black as the steed
That fiery Sheridan reins.
Grandest of mortal sights
The sun-browned ranks to view,–
The Colors ragg'd in a hundred fights,
And the dusty Frocks of Blue!
And all day, mile on mile,
With cheer, and waving, and smile,
The war-worn legions defile
Where the nation's noblest stand;
And the Great Lieutenant looks on,
With the Flower of a rescued Land,—
For the terrible work is done,
And the Good Fight is won
For God and for Fatherland.
So, from the fields they win,
Our men are marching home,
A million are marching home!
To the cannon's thundering din,
And banners on mast and dome,—
And the ships come sailing in
With all their ensigns dight,
As erst for a great sea-fight.
Let every color fly,
Every pennon flaunt in pride;
Wave, Starry Flag, on high!
Float in the sunny sky,
Stream o'er the stormy tide!
For every stripe of stainless hue,
And every star in the field of blue,
Ten thousand of the brave and true
Have laid them down and died.
And in all our pride to-day
We think, with a tender pain,
Of those so far away,
They will not come home again.
And our boys had fondly thought,
To-day, in marching by,
From the ground so dearly bought,
And the fields so bravely fought,
To have met their Father's eye.
But they may not see him in place,
Nor their ranks be seen of him;
We look for the well-known face,
And the splendor is strangely dim.
Perished?—who was it said
Our Leader had passed away?
Dead? Our President dead?—
He has not died for a day!
We mourn for a little breath,
Such as, late or soon, dust yields;
But the Dark Flower of Death
Blooms in the fadeless fields.
To-day be glad; for agen
The stormy music swells and rolls
Stirring the hearts of men.
And under the Nation's Dome,
They've guarded so well and long,
Our boys come marching home,
Two hundred thousand strong.
All in the pleasant month of May,
With war-worn colors and drums,
Still, through the livelong summer's day,
Regiment, regiment comes.
Like the tide, yesty and barmy,
That sets on a wild lee-shore,
Surge the ranks of an army
Never reviewed before!
Who shall look on the like agen,
Or see such host of the brave?
A mighty River of marching men
Rolls the Capital through,—
Rank on rank, and wave on wave,
Of bayonet-crested blue!
How the chargers neigh and champ,
(Their riders weary of camp,)
With curvet and with caracole!—
The cavalry comes with thundrous tramp,
And the cannons heavily roll.
And ever, flowery and gay,
The Staff sweeps on in a spray
Of tossing forelocks and manes;
But each bridle-arm has a weed
Of funeral, black as the steed
That fiery Sheridan reins.
Grandest of mortal sights
The sun-browned ranks to view,–
The Colors ragg'd in a hundred fights,
And the dusty Frocks of Blue!
And all day, mile on mile,
With cheer, and waving, and smile,
The war-worn legions defile
Where the nation's noblest stand;
And the Great Lieutenant looks on,
With the Flower of a rescued Land,—
For the terrible work is done,
And the Good Fight is won
For God and for Fatherland.
So, from the fields they win,
Our men are marching home,
A million are marching home!
To the cannon's thundering din,
And banners on mast and dome,—
And the ships come sailing in
With all their ensigns dight,
As erst for a great sea-fight.
Let every color fly,
Every pennon flaunt in pride;
Wave, Starry Flag, on high!
Float in the sunny sky,
Stream o'er the stormy tide!
For every stripe of stainless hue,
And every star in the field of blue,
Ten thousand of the brave and true
Have laid them down and died.
And in all our pride to-day
We think, with a tender pain,
Of those so far away,
They will not come home again.
And our boys had fondly thought,
To-day, in marching by,
From the ground so dearly bought,
And the fields so bravely fought,
To have met their Father's eye.
But they may not see him in place,
Nor their ranks be seen of him;
We look for the well-known face,
And the splendor is strangely dim.
Perished?—who was it said
Our Leader had passed away?
Dead? Our President dead?—
He has not died for a day!
We mourn for a little breath,
Such as, late or soon, dust yields;
But the Dark Flower of Death
Blooms in the fadeless fields.
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Последний отзыв
Так получилось, что книга ко мне попала в тяжелый эмоциональный кризис и многое мне дала. Написано актуально, тут многих полезных вещей, никакого злоу...
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