Let none misgive we died amiss When here we strove in furious fight: Furious it was; nathless was this Better than tranquil plight, And tame surrender of the Cause Hallowed by hearts and by the laws. We here who warred for Man and Right, The choice of warring never laid with us. There we were ruled by the traitor’s choice. Nor long we stood to trim and poise, But marched, and fell--victorious! The Fortitude of the North under the Disaster of the Second Manassas. They take no shame for dark defeat While prizing yet each victory won, Who fight for the Right through all retreat, Nor pause until their work is done. The Cape-of-Storms is proof to every throe; Vainly against that foreland beat Wild winds aloft and wilder waves below: The black cliffs gleam through rents in sleet When the livid Antarctic storm-clouds glow. On the Men of Maine killed in the Victory of Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Afar they fell. It was the zone Of fig and orange, cane and lime (A land how all unlike their own, With the cold pine-grove overgrown), But still their Country’s clime. And there in youth they died for her-- The Volunteers, For her went up their dying prayers: So vast the Nation, yet so strong the tie. What doubt shall come, then, to deter The Republic’s earnest faith and courage high. An Epitaph. When Sunday tidings from the front Made pale the priest and people, And heavily the blessing went, And bells were dumb in the steeple; The Soldier’s widow (summering sweerly here, In shade by waving beeches lent) Felt deep at heart her faith content, And priest and people borrowed of her cheer. Inscription for Marye’s Heights, Fredericksburg. To them who crossed the flood And climbed the hill, with eyes Upon the heavenly flag intent, And through the deathful tumult went Even unto death: to them this Stone-- Erect, where they were overthrown-- Of more than victory the monument. The Mound by the Lake. The grass shall never forget this grave. When homeward footing it in the sun After the weary ride by rail, The stripling soldiers passed her door, Wounded perchance, or wan and pale, She left her household work undone-- Duly the wayside table spread, With evergreens shaded, to regale Each travel-spent and grateful one. So warm her heart--childless--unwed, Who like a mother comforted. On the Slain at Chickamauga. Happy are they and charmed in life Who through long wars arrive unscarred At peace. To such the wreath be given, If they unfalteringly have striven-- In honor, as in limb, unmarred. Let cheerful praise be rife, And let them live their years at ease, Musing on brothers who victorious died-- Loved mates whose memory shall ever please. And yet mischance is honorable too-- Seeming defeat in conflict justified Whose end to closing eyes is his from view. The will, that never can relent-- The aim, survivor of the bafflement, Make this memorial due.