Lincoln at Gettysburg
by Bayard Taylor�(1825�1878) |
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AFTER the eyes that looked, the lips that spake
Here,
from the shadows of impending death,
Those words of
solemn breath,
What voice may fitly break
The silence,
doubly hallowed, left by him?
We can but bow the head,
with eyes grown dim,
And, as a Nation's litany, repeat
The phrase his martyrdom hath made complete,
Noble as
then, but now more sadly sweet:
"Let us, the living,
rather dedicate
Ourselves to the unfinished work, which
they
Thus far advanced so nobly on its way,
And save
the perilled state!
Let us, upon this field where they,
the brave,
Their last full measure of devotion gave,
Highly resolve they have not died in vain!�
That, under
God, the Nation's later birth
Of Freedom, and the
people's gain
Of their own Sovereignty, shall never wane
And perish from the circle of the earth!"
From such a
perfect text, shall Song aspire
To light her faded fire,
And into wandering music turn
Its virtue, simple,
sorrowful, and stern?
His voice all elegies anticipated;
For, whatsoe'er the strain,
We hear that one refrain:
"We consecrate ourselves to them, the Consecrated!"
After the thunder-storm our heaven is blue:
Far off,
along the borders of the sky,
In silver folds the clouds
of battle lie,
With soft, consoling sunlight shining
through;
And round the sweeping circle of your hills
The crashing cannon-thrills
Have faded from the memory of
the air;
And Summer pours from unexhausted fountains
Her bliss on yonder mountains:
The camps are tenantless,
the breastworks bare:
Earth keeps no stain where
hero-blood was poured:
The hornets, humming on their
wings of lead,
Have ceased to sting, their angry swarms
are dead,
And, harmless in its scabbard, rusts the sword!
Oh, not till now,�Oh, now we dare, at last,
To give
our heroes fitting consecration!
Not till the soreness of
the strife is past,
And Peace hath comforted the weary
Nation!
So long her sad, indignant spirit held
One
keen regret, one throb of pain, unquelled;
So long the
land about her feet was waste,
The ashes of the burning
lay upon her,
We stood beside their graves with brows
abased,
Waiting the purer mood to do them honor!
And yet, ye Dead!�and yet
Our clouded natures cling to
one regret:
We are not all resigned
To yield, with
even mind,
Our scarcely risen stars, that here untimely
set.
We needs must think of History that waits
For
lines that live but in their proud beginning,�
Arrested
promises and cheated fates,�
Youth's boundless venture
and its single winning!
We see the ghosts of deeds they
might have done,
The phantom homes that beaconed their
endeavor;
The seeds of countless lives, in them begun,
That might have multiplied for us forever!
We grudge the
better strain of men
That proved itself, and was
extinguished then,�
The field, with strength and hope so
thickly sown,
Wherefrom no other harvest shall be mown:
For all the land, within its clasping seas,
Is poorer now
in bravery and beauty,
Such wealth of manly loves and
energies
Was given to teach us all the free man's sacred
duty! |
By Bayard Taylor�(1825�1878)
Listed October 10, 2014 |
From Gettysburg Ode:
Dedication of the National Monument
July 1, 1869 |
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