No vision of conquest could lead him astray No sectional bias waved false lights in his way. Stem duty, as he saw it, confronted his eyes; And the future passed judgment at its solemn assize: “The Union which Washington won by his sword “I have sworn to preserve, ’tis my vow to the Lord. “Should the temple he built by my treachery burn, “My name would all ages indignantly spurn, “My honor be scorned, my oath be forsworn, “And my name from the roster of Patriots be torn. “This Union so fair asunder to rend, “No patriot has sworn--I’ve an oath to defend, “‘The Last Sigh of the Moor’ is a voice not in vain, “For the mother who bore him scorned Boabdil of Spain.” The ages have brought forth no kinder than he His soul, like the broad, irresistible sea, Was a blending of majesty, sweetness and grace, Himself he forgot in his love for his race. The truths which he uttered all time will applaud, For his lips caught their flame from the altar of God. Who can love in this life, and yet truly be wise? Who can hate, and still see with unprejudiced eyes? Our passions envelop our visions with mist; Their whirlwinds transport us wherever they list. To tenderly love and judge all hearts aright Belongs to One only--the Father of Light, Who sits on the throne with white radiance burning-- In whom is no variableness nor shadow of turning. Fallen, fallen, is the storm-shattered oak of the South; Fallen, fallen, is the strong, stately pine of the North; One combatant loses, another one wins-- God have mercy on both and forgive them their sins. And if a man conquer, or if he should lose, ’Tis naught if the Great Judge His mercy refuse. And now, all unheeding earth’s praises or blame, Thy two sons, Kentucky, repose in their fame. The victor struck down while the jubilant cheer Of honor and victory rang in his ear; The vanquished, who suffered in silence his lot, When the empire and glory he dreamed of were not. New Orleans and Springfield have taken to rest Two children, Kentucky, who nursed at thy breast. Oh, Hardin and Christian, the homes of the great, Forgetfulness veils, through the satire of fate, While fame blazons far to the ends of the earth The log huts which gave to your progeny birth. The leaders of millions lie helpless and lone As the soldiers who perished unnoticed, unknown. Take them tenderly, dear Mother Earth, to thy breast, To sleep in their “windowless palace of rest.”