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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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We looked on a cold, still brow:
But Lincoln could yet survive;
He never was more alive,
Never nearer than now.
For the pleasant season found him,
Guarded by faithful hands,
In the fairest of Summer Lands:
With his own brave Staff around him,
There our President stands.
There they are all at his side,
The noble hearts and true,
That did all men might do,—
Then slept, with their swords, and died.
Of little the storm has reft us
But the brave and kindly clay
('Tis but dust where Lander left us,
And but turf where Lyon lay).
There's Winthrop, true to the end,
And Ellsworth of long ago,
(First fair young head laid low!)
There 's Baker, the brave old friend,
And Douglas, the friendly foe:
(Baker, that still stood up
When 'twas death on either hand:
"'Tis a soldier's part to stoop,
But the Senator must stand.")
The heroes gather and form:—
There's Cameron, with his scars,
Sedgwick, of siege and storm,
And Mitchell, that joined his stars.
Winthrop, of sword and pen,
Wadsworth, with silver hair,
Mansfield, ruler of men,
And brave McPherson are there.
Birney, who led so long,
Abbott, born to command,
Elliott the bold, and Strong,
Who fell on the hard-fought strand.
Lytle, soldier and bard,
And the Ellets, sire and son,
Ransom, all grandly scarred,
And Redfield, no more on guard,
(But Alatoona is won!)
Reno, of pure desert,
Kearney, with heart of flame,
And Russell, that hid his hurt
Till the final death-bolt came.
Terrill, dead where he fought,
Wallace, that would not yield,
And Sumner, who vainly sought
A grave on the foughten field
(But died ere the end he saw,
With years and battles outworn).
There's Harmon of Kenesaw,
And Ulric Dahlgren, and Shaw,
That slept with his Hope Forlorn.
Bayard, that knew not fear,
(True as the knight of yore,)
And Putnam, and Paul Revere,
Worthy the names they bore.
Allen, who died for others,
Bryan, of gentle fame,
And the brave New-England brothers
That have left us Lowell's name.
Home, at last, from the wars,—
Stedman, the staunch and mild,
And Janeway, our hero-child,
Home, with his fifteen scars!
There's Porter, ever in front,
True son of a sea-king sire,
And Christian Foote, and Dupont
(Dupont, who led his ships
Rounding the first Ellipse
Of thunder and of fire).
There's Ward, with his brave death-wounds,
And Cummings, of spotless name,
And Smith, who hurtled his rounds
When deck and hatch were aflame;
Wainwright, steadfast and true,
Rodgers, of brave sea-blood,
And Craven, with ship and crew
Sunk in the salt sea flood.
But Lincoln could yet survive;
He never was more alive,
Never nearer than now.
For the pleasant season found him,
Guarded by faithful hands,
In the fairest of Summer Lands:
With his own brave Staff around him,
There our President stands.
There they are all at his side,
The noble hearts and true,
That did all men might do,—
Then slept, with their swords, and died.
Of little the storm has reft us
But the brave and kindly clay
('Tis but dust where Lander left us,
And but turf where Lyon lay).
There's Winthrop, true to the end,
And Ellsworth of long ago,
(First fair young head laid low!)
There 's Baker, the brave old friend,
And Douglas, the friendly foe:
(Baker, that still stood up
When 'twas death on either hand:
"'Tis a soldier's part to stoop,
But the Senator must stand.")
The heroes gather and form:—
There's Cameron, with his scars,
Sedgwick, of siege and storm,
And Mitchell, that joined his stars.
Winthrop, of sword and pen,
Wadsworth, with silver hair,
Mansfield, ruler of men,
And brave McPherson are there.
Birney, who led so long,
Abbott, born to command,
Elliott the bold, and Strong,
Who fell on the hard-fought strand.
Lytle, soldier and bard,
And the Ellets, sire and son,
Ransom, all grandly scarred,
And Redfield, no more on guard,
(But Alatoona is won!)
Reno, of pure desert,
Kearney, with heart of flame,
And Russell, that hid his hurt
Till the final death-bolt came.
Terrill, dead where he fought,
Wallace, that would not yield,
And Sumner, who vainly sought
A grave on the foughten field
(But died ere the end he saw,
With years and battles outworn).
There's Harmon of Kenesaw,
And Ulric Dahlgren, and Shaw,
That slept with his Hope Forlorn.
Bayard, that knew not fear,
(True as the knight of yore,)
And Putnam, and Paul Revere,
Worthy the names they bore.
Allen, who died for others,
Bryan, of gentle fame,
And the brave New-England brothers
That have left us Lowell's name.
Home, at last, from the wars,—
Stedman, the staunch and mild,
And Janeway, our hero-child,
Home, with his fifteen scars!
There's Porter, ever in front,
True son of a sea-king sire,
And Christian Foote, and Dupont
(Dupont, who led his ships
Rounding the first Ellipse
Of thunder and of fire).
There's Ward, with his brave death-wounds,
And Cummings, of spotless name,
And Smith, who hurtled his rounds
When deck and hatch were aflame;
Wainwright, steadfast and true,
Rodgers, of brave sea-blood,
And Craven, with ship and crew
Sunk in the salt sea flood.
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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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