Bury the mighty dead--
Long, long to live in story!
Bury the mighty dead
In his own shroud of glory.
Question not his purpose;
Sully not his name,
Nor think that adventitious aid
Can build or blight his fame,
Nor hope, by obloquizing what
He strove for, glory's laws
Can be gainsaid, or he defiled
Who'd honor any cause.
Question not his motives,
Ye who have felt his might!
Who doubts, that ever saw him strike,
He aimed to strike for right?
His was no base ambition;--
No angry thirst for blood.
Naught could avail to lift his arm,
But love of common good.
Yet, when he deigned to raise it,
Who could resist its power?
Or who shall hope, or friend, or foe,
E'er to forget that hour?
His life he held as nothing.
His country claimed his all.
Ah! what shall dry that country's tears
Fast falling o'er his fall?
His life he held as nothing,
As through the flame he trod;
To duty gave he all of earth
And all beyond to God.
The justness of his effort
He never lent to doubt.
His aim, his arm, his all was fix'd
To put the foe to rout.
Mistrusting earth's tribunals,
Scorning the tyrant's rod,
He chose the fittest Arbiter,
'Twixt foe and sword, his God.
And doubted not, a moment,
That, when the fight was won,
Who rules the fate of nations
Would bid His own:--Well done!
And doubted not, a moment,
As fiercest flashed the fire,
The bullet's fatal blast would call:--
Glad summons!--Come up higher!
And who would hence recall thee?--
Thy work so nobly done!
Enough for mortal brow to wear
The crown thy prowess won:--
Grim warrior, grand in battle!
Rapt christian, meek in prayer!--
Vain age! that fain would reproduce
A character as rare!
The world has owned its heroes;--
Its martyrs, great and good,
Who rode the storm of power,
Or swam the sea of blood:--
Napoleons, Cæsars, Cromwells,
Melancthons, Luthers brave!
But, who than Jackson ever yet
Has filled a prouder grave?
The cause for which he struggled,
May fall before the foe:
Stout hearts, devoted to their trust,
All moulder, cold and low.
The land may prove a charnel-house
For millions of the slain,
And blood and carnage mark the track
Where madmen march amain,--
Fanatic heels may scourge it,
Black demons blight the sod;
And hell's foul desolation
Mock Liberty's fair God.--
The future leave no record,
Of mighty struggle there,
Save hollowness, and helplessness,
And bitter, bald despair.--
Proud cities lose their names e'en;
Tall towers fall to earth.--
Mount Vernon fade, and Westmoreland
Forget illustrious birth;--
And yet, upon tradition,
Will float the name of him
Whose virtues time may tarnish not,
Eternity not dim.
Whose life on earth was only,
So grand, so free, so pure,
For brighter realms and sunnier skies,
A preparation sure.
And whose sweet faith, so child-like,
Nor blast, nor surge nor rod,
One moment could avert from
The bosom of his God.
Bury the mighty dead!
Long, long to live in story!
Bury the hero dead
In his own shroud of glory!