Many the captains of our wrath Sought thus the pious civic path, Knowing in what a land Their destiny was planned, And after, with a forward sense, A simple Roman excellence, Pledge in their spirit bore That war should be no more. Thrice Roman he, who saw the shock (Calm as a weather-wrinkled rock,) Roll in the Georgian fen; And steadfast aye as then In plenitude of old control That asked, secure of his own soul, No pardon and no aid, If clear his way were made, Would have nor seat nor bays, nor bring The Cæsar in him to be king, But with abstracted ear Rode pleased without a cheer. Now he declines from peace and age, And home, his triple heritage, The last and dearest head Of all our perfect dead, O what if sorrow cannot reach Far in the shallow fords of speech, But leads us silent round The sad Missouri ground, Where on her hero Freedom lays The scroll and blazon of her praise, And bids to him belong Arms trailing, and a song, And broken flags with ruined dyes (Bright once in young and dying eyes), Against the morn to shake For love’s familiar sake? The blessèd broken flags unfurled Above a healed and happier world! There let them droop, and be His tent of victory; There, in each year’s auguster light, Lean in, and loose their red and white, Like apple-blossoms strewn Upon his burial-stone. For nothing more, the ages thro’, Can nature or the nation do For him who helped retrieve Our life, as we believe, Save that we also, trooping by In sound yet of his battle-cry, Safeguard with general mind Our pact as brothers kind, And, ever nearer to our star, Adore indeed not what we are, But wise reprovings hold Thankworthier than gold; And bear in faith and rapture such As can eternal issues touch, Whole from the final field, Our father Sherman’s shield. [Illustration] _When on the Marge of Evening_ WHEN on the marge of evening the last blue light is broken, And winds of dreamy odor are loosened from afar, Or when my lattice opens, before the lark has spoken, On dim laburnum-blossoms, and morning’s dying star, I think of thee, (O mine the more if other eyes be sleeping!) Whose great and noonday splendor the many share and see, While sacred and forever, some perfect law is keeping The late and early twilight alone and sweet for me. [Illustration] _Rooks in New College Gardens_ THRO’ rosy cloud, and over thorny towers, Their wings with all the autumn distance filled, From Isis’ valley border hundred-hilled, The rooks are crowding home as evening lowers: Not for men only and their musing hours, By battled walls did gracious Wykeham build These dewy spaces early sown and stilled, These dearest inland melancholy bowers.