The Lion-Hearted lives today in every land.
Immortaliz'd by the same wizard pen
That gave to us the Knight of Ivanhoe.
Can Texans, while the Lone Star gleams in air,
Forget the Alamo-the fate of Goliad?
Travis and Bowie, Crockett and Fannin, now
On History's heights, are with th' immortal gods.
Unhappy Ireland still lifts her plea
At History's bar. O'Connell is not dead.
Ten thousand kindling echoes bring him back
To Erin's homes and hearts-his spirit still
Enfolds the Emerald Isle. What if he failed?
Does not the Shamrock's breath fill every land,—
The whole world love the Irish melodies?
Aye, will not yet the Right victorious rise
To wake the slumbering strings of Tara's harp
And carve an epitaph for Emmet's tomb?
Dismember'd Poland! Prostrate on the plain,
She sank to rest amidst colossal ruins.
But Kosciusko's deathless soul still lives
To see her conquering eagles pois'd once more
On Warsaw's heights-her banners fill the sky.
So lives our Cause on History's glorious page,
In literature's sweet minstrelsy of song,
In Europe's new republics; in the sweep
Of Freedom's path to power; in the prayer
Of home-rule recogniz'd; in all the rights
Of charter'd liberty confirm'd to men.
These victories are ours. The South has won!
Her principles immortal, she can lift
A countenance unsham'd to all the gods!
Nor will the day, in all the cycles, dawn,
When Lee will not surpass Leonidas
Or Appomattox call to Marathon!
F, on Atlanta's flame-encircl'd hills,
An old South perish'd, it was hers to lift
A new South up, till from the chrysalis
Of death, in rainbow tints, emerg'd
The radiant butterfly, till from the dust
Arose th' imperial bird, with outstretch'd wings
Warm'd into wafture by her phoenix-fires.
Atlanta! See her smiling on the heights—
That splendid sequel by the new South penn'd
To the dead Appomattox of the old!
'Twas hers to gild the darkness and to wake
The pilot-beams of Dixie's morning star.
Out of the battle-smoke she hemm'd a shroud
In which to lay an old South down to dreams.
But from her fiery looms of war she caught,
Of splendors woven, an ascension robe,
With which to leap once more into the skies,
Wrapt in the rising glories of the new.
Eschewing hatred, on her war-worn hills,
She hid all bitter memories; at her breast
Nurtur'd the flower of love; sent to the North
Her stout apostle who, in siren tones,
Sued lovingly for peace, till once again
It seem'd that, from the cloud-rests of the gods,
We heard Apollo's lute; till Plymouth Rock,
Forgetful of the Pilgrim's tragic tale
Dream'd of a fair young face, whose Celtic cast
Came from the Cavaliers; till swords were sheath'd,
Till anger died away and-anchor'd fast-
The old Ship of the Union dipp'd its sail
Beside the ancient moorings of the Mayflower.
Till, love for love, New England echo'd back
In answering strains prolong'd, that winsome voice
Whose wondrous sweetness, like a serenade,
Warm from the throat of some lone nightingale,
Haunted all hearts, till discord's Babel ceas'd,
Till love was regnant, and from mount to main
The nation's golden era dawned again.
But, O, the piteous pathos of it all!
Our minister of love, ere many moons,
Became our lamb of sacrifice; that glow
Upon his shining countenance was caught
From Heaven's border-land, and those last words,
Fraught with the very soul of brotherhood,
Died in the music of the trumps of God.
Who can forget that crystal Christmas day,
Shot to the core with sunshine, when we laid
The dust of our evangel down to sleep
Among the hills? But the great God knew best.
Nor was it an ungentle providence
That, in the Yule-tide hour, when the world,
Bedeck'd with holly and with mistletoe,
Thought of the Babe who in a manger lay,
This gentle follower of the Prince of Peace
Should enter Heaven, 'mid the ringing bells,
That carol'd of the Christ of Bethlehem!
Illustrious Grady! On a nation's sky,
In flaming letters, it was thine to write
God's new commandment, in a nation's heart,
To plant the seed of human brotherhood,
And, o'er a nation's troubled sea, to breathe
The Master's "Peace be still!" till at thy tomb
The sections knelt, bow'd by a common grief,
And, in the tear-drops of an hour, were drown'd
The conflicts of a century. "Twas thine
To hold no office and to seek no prize
Within thy country's gift, to gratify
No base ambition; satisfied to live,
Content to die, a private citizen.
But not since Warwick made and unmade kings-
Lifter of crowns, though but himself an earl-
Last of the barons-not since England grew
The battling roses has a single brain
Presided o'er the chess-board of events
Endow'd with such a Jovine power to mold
Immortal destinies. On yonder hills
Repose his ashes, but enshrin'd anew
In loving hearts all over this wide land-
By life's warm rubies claspt-this prince of ours
Sleeps in a million sepulchres. "Twas his
To make the undevelop'd quarries yield
Stones for cathedral walls, but better still
To herald love's new day. Golden of pen,
His speech was golden likewise, and with both
He sought to throttle hatred and to heal
His country's bleeding wounds. Tell me, I pray,
When has a youth's untimely death so stirr'd
A nation's pulse-beat-waked a wider woe-
Since Britain's hope was crush'd on Hallam's brow
And "In Memoriam," with an ocean's sob,
Leap'd from the immortal harp of Tennyson?
Or when has such a radiant spirit rare
Sweeten'd these tides of time, since long ago,
At the Last Supper, a disciple lean'd
Upon the Master's bosom? When I say,
Has such a seer-such an oracle-
Appear'd amongst us, since on Patmos dream'd
The inspir'd John, who wrote of hidden things,
And, in apocalyptic vision, caught
The splendors of the New Jerusalem,
Let down from heaven? But more glorious still, Like unto Him, who made the waters blush
In golden Galilee, who counsel'd men
To walk the lilied ways, 'twas thine to love
A nation into peace. In yonder skies,
Sweet be thy dreams, where beauty never dies.
O'er the St. Lawrence, on th' historic heights
Of Montreal, there looms a monument
Of reconciliation; it recalls,
In one memorial stone, the epic strife
Of two great races; on its shaft preserv'd
In common marble, the heroic deeds
Of former foes, but not one bitter pang;
And, in an equal sunlight's tender gold,
We read the shining names: Wolfe and Montcalm.
The rival states of Greece are reconcil'd
On History's page. Sparta and Athens now
Unite to wake the radiant afterglow
Of the Hellenic sunset. Hector's fame,
Not less than great Achilles', helps to swell
The rich full tide of the Homeric song.
The civil wars of Rome have left behind
No rankling thorns; Caesar and Pompey both
In laurel'd silence share th' unbroken sleep
That broods upon the Tiber, light th' renown
Which the Eternal City hath bequeath'd
To distant times unborn. Twin'd in the crown
Of England's history, those rival flowers,
The Red Rose and the White, each dear alike
To England's mother-heart. The Puritan,
In death's unending truce to arms, has met
The Cavalier. Both blend in common dust;
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