There is sobbing of the strong, And a pall upon the land; But the People in their weeping Bare the iron hand; Beware the People weeping When they bare the iron hand. He lieth in his blood— The father in his face; They have killed him, the Forgiver— The Avenger takes his place, The Avenger wisely stern, Who in righteousness shall do What the heavens call him to, And the parricides remand; For they killed him in his kindness, In their madness and their blindness, And his blood is on their hand. There is sobbing of the strong, And a pall upon the land; But the People in their weeping Bare the iron hand: Beware the People weeping When they bare the iron hand. REBEL COLOR-BEARERS AT SHILOH _A plea against the vindictive cry raised by civilians shortly after the surrender at Appomattox_ The color-bearers facing death White in the whirling sulphurous wreath, Stand boldly out before the line; Right and left their glances go, Proud of each other, glorying in their show; Their battle-flags about them blow, And fold them as in flame divine: Such living robes are only seen Round martyrs burning on the green— And martyrs for the Wrong have been. Perish their Cause! but mark the men— Mark the planted statues, then Draw trigger on them if you can. The leader of a patriot-band Even so could view rebels who so could stand; And this when peril pressed him sore, Left aidless in the shivered front of war— Skulkers behind, defiant foes before, And fighting with a broken brand. The challenge in that courage rare— Courage defenseless, proudly bare— Never could tempt him; he could dare Strike up the leveled rifle there. Sunday at Shiloh, and the day When Stonewall charged—McClellan’s crimson May, And Chickamauga’s wave of death, And of the Wilderness the cypress wreath— All these have passed away. The life in the veins of Treason lags, Her daring color-bearers drop their flags, And yield. _Now_ shall we fire? Can poor spite be? Shall nobleness in victory less aspire Than in reverse? Spare Spleen her ire, And think how Grant met Lee. AURORA BOREALIS _Commemorative of the Dissolution of armies at the Peace_ May, 1865 What power disbands the Northern Lights After their steely play? The lonely watcher feels an awe Of Nature’s sway, As when appearing, He marked their flashed uprearing In the cold gloom— Retreatings and advancings, (Like dallyings of doom), Transitions and enhancings, And bloody ray. The phantom-host has faded quite, Splendor and Terror gone Portent or promise—and gives way To pale, meek Dawn; The coming, going, Alike in wonder showing— Alike the God, Decreeing and commanding The million blades that glowed, The muster and disbanding— Midnight and Morn.