From the hour in which the cause of the Union became the cause of liberty, from the hour in which the flag of the Republic became the flag of humanity, from the hour in which the stars and stripes no longer floated over a slave; yea, from the sacred hour of the nation's new birth, that dear old banner never faded from the sky, and the brave boys who bore it never wavered in their onward march to victory.... After a quarter of a century of peace and prosperity, all children of our common country kneel at the altar of a reunited faith. The Blue and Gray lie in eternal slumber side by side. Heroes all, they fell face to face, brother against brother, to expiate a nation's sin. The lonely firesides and the unknown graves, the memory of the loved, the yearning for the lost, the desolated altars and the broken hopes, are past recall. The wings of our weak protests beat in vain against the iron doors of fate. But through the mingled tears that fall alike upon the honored dead of both, the North and South turn hopeful eyes to that new future of prosperity and power, possible only in the shelter of the dear old flag. To the conquerors and the conquered, to the white man and the black, to the master and the slave, Abraham Lincoln was God's providence. JONATHAN TO JOHN James Russell Lowell This poetic effusion of Mr. Hosea Biglow was preceded by the Idyl of the Bridge and the Monument, which set forth another side of American feeling at the British words and deeds consequent on the unauthorized capture, by Commodore Wilkes, of the Trent, conveying to England two Confederate Commissioners. It don't seem hardly right, John, When both my hands was full, To stump me to a fight, John-- Your cousin, tu, John Bull! Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess We know it now," sez he, "The lion's paw is all the law, Accordin' to J. B., Thet's fit for you an' me!" You wonder why we're hot, John? Your mark wuz on the guns, The neutral guns, thet shot, John, Our brothers an' our sons: Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess There's human blood," sez he, "By fits an' starts, in Yankee hearts, Though 't may surprise J. B. More'n it would you an' me." Ef _I_ turned mad dogs loose, John, On _your_ front-parlor stairs, Would it jest meet your views, John, To wait and sue their heirs? Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess, I only guess," sez he, "Thet ef Vattel on _his_ toes fell, 'T would kind o' rile J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!" Who made the law thet hurts, John, _Heads I win,--ditto tails_? "_J. B._" was on his shirts, John, Onless my memory fails. Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess (I'm good at thet)," sez he, "Thet sauce for goose ain't jest the juice For ganders with J. B., No more than you or me!"