Rich was the harvest; souls as true As ever battle tried; But fiercer still the conflict grew, The floor of death more wide; Ah, who forgets that dreadful day Whose blot of grief and shame Four bitter years scarce wash away In seas of blood and flame? Vain, vain the Nation's lofty boasts,-- Vain all her sacrifice! "Give me a man to lead my hosts, O God in heaven!" she cries. While Battle whirls his crushing flail, And plies his winnowing fan,-- Thick flies the chaff on every gale,-- She cannot find her man! Bravely they fought who failed to win,-- Our leaders battle-scarred,-- Fighting the hosts of hell and sin, But devils die always hard! Blame not the broken tools of God That helped our sorest needs; Through paths that martyr feet have trod The conqueror's steps He leads. But now the heavens grow black with doubt, The ravens fill the sky, "Friends" plot within, foes storm without, Hark,--that despairing cry, "Where is the heart, the hand, the brain To dare, to do, to plan?" The bleeding Nation shrieks in vain,-- She has not found her man! A little echo stirs the air,-- Some tale, whate'er it be, Of rebels routed in their lair Along the Tennessee. The little echo spreads and grows, And soon the trump of Fame Has taught the Nation's friends and foes The "man on horseback"'s name. So well his warlike wooing sped, No fortress might resist His billets-doux of lisping lead, The bayonets in his fist,-- With kisses from his cannons' mouth He made his passion known Till Vicksburg, vestal of the South, Unbound her virgin zone. And still where'er his banners led He conquered as he came, The trembling hosts of treason fled Before his breath of flame, And Fame's still gathering echoes grew Till high o'er Richmond's towers The starry fold of Freedom flew, And all the land was ours. Welcome from fields where valor fought To feasts where pleasure waits; A Nation gives you smiles unbought At all her opening gates! Forgive us when we press your hand,-- Your war-worn features scan,-- God sent you to a bleeding land; Our Nation found its man! TO H. W. LONGFELLOW BEFORE HIS DEPARTURE FOR EUROPE, MAY 27, 1868 OUR Poet, who has taught the Western breeze To waft his songs before him o'er the seas, Will find them wheresoe'er his wanderings reach Borne on the spreading tide of English speech Twin with the rhythmic waves that kiss the farthest beach. Where shall the singing bird a stranger be That finds a nest for him in every tree? How shall he travel who can never go Where his own voice the echoes do not know, Where his own garden flowers no longer learn to grow? Ah! gentlest soul! how gracious, how benign Breathes through our troubled life that voice of thine, Filled with a sweetness born of happier spheres, That wins and warms, that kindles, softens, cheers, That calms the wildest woe and stays the bitterest tears!