Who shall look on the like agen, Or see such host of the brave? A mighty River of marching men Rolls the Capital through,-- Rank on rank, and wave on wave, Of bayonet-crested blue! How the chargers neigh and champ, (Their riders weary of camp,) With curvet and with caracole!-- The cavalry comes with thundrous tramp, And the cannons heavily roll. And ever, flowery and gay, The Staff sweeps on in a spray Of tossing forelocks and manes; But each bridle-arm has a weed Of funeral, black as the steed That fiery Sheridan reins. Grandest of mortal sights The sun-browned ranks to view,--- The Colors ragg'd in a hundred fights, And the dusty Frocks of Blue! And all day, mile on mile, With cheer, and waving, and smile, The war-worn legions defile Where the nation's noblest stand; And the Great Lieutenant looks on, With the Flower of a rescued Land,-- For the terrible work is done, And the Good Fight is won For God and for Fatherland. So, from the fields they win, Our men are marching home, A million are marching home! To the cannon's thundering din, And banners on mast and dome,-- And the ships come sailing in With all their ensigns dight, As erst for a great sea-fight. Let every color fly, Every pennon flaunt in pride; Wave, Starry Flag, on high! Float in the sunny sky, Stream o'er the stormy tide! For every stripe of stainless hue, And every star in the field of blue, Ten thousand of the brave and true Have laid them down and died. And in all our pride to-day We think, with a tender pain, Of those so far away, They will not come home again. And our boys had fondly thought, To-day, in marching by, From the ground so dearly bought, And the fields so bravely fought, To have met their Father's eye. But they may not see him in place, Nor their ranks be seen of him; We look for the well-known face, And the splendor is strangely dim. Perished?--who was it said Our Leader had passed away? Dead? Our President dead?-- He has not died for a day! We mourn for a little breath, Such as, late or soon, dust yields; But the Dark Flower of Death Blooms in the fadeless fields. We looked on a cold, still brow: But Lincoln could yet survive; He never was more alive, Never nearer than now. For the pleasant season found him, Guarded by faithful hands, In the fairest of Summer Lands: With his own brave Staff around him, There our President stands. There they are all at his side, The noble hearts and true, That did all men might do,-- Then slept, with their swords, and died.