Classic Poem

Aye, we cannot all forget, since last in joy we met,
Our noblest and our best has crossed the Narrow Tide:
He has laid him down to rest, the union on his breast,
And the brave old sword by his side.

And now, by sea and shore, we shall meet him never more,
Never clasp again that hearty, true right hand —
Never more amid us here, shall he come, with kindly cheer,
To greet his Brother Captains of ocean or of land.

Never again, from mizen or from main,
Sight o'er the cannon-haze, by bellowing Pass or Bay —
The great sea-fights are done, and the quiet shore is won,
And the smoke of battle forever rolled away.

The ships shall rot to dust, and the cannons scale to rust;
But it will not fade, that grand and pure Renown,
While the navies ride upon the stormy tide,
While the long line-gales go thundering down!

In the Nation's troubled hour, 't was not for rank nor power,
Nor even for the fame he won and wore so well —
But for Freedom's holy cause, and for just and equal laws,
He dared the iron shower, he hurled the victor shell.

'T is deed becomes the great, more than reward or state:
Methought that he was grander in his mien
Ringed round with flame and wreck, on the old Hartford's deck,
Than when the honored guest of Emperor or Queen.

What though weeds be worn — to-night we will not mourn
A Name whose glory shall float o'er land and wave!
Aye, our Admiral is gone — but a nation's life is won,
And a nation's love and honor shall ever crown his grave.

Meet him never more? — we shall meet him on the Shore
Where the gentle and the brave land from life's stormy main —
Where his old captains wait — where Craven 's past the strait,
Where Wainwright's risen, where Drayton has met his Chief again.

And I trust that not for self, nor for hate, nor pride, nor pelf,
Each and all we drew the sword — but because full well we knew,
Were the Land to rise again from her couch of mortal pain,
Here was hard and heavy work that some of us must do!

Not ours the craze for fight — but there is a wrong and right!
So to the work we went, Blue Jacket and Blue Frock,
Much like old Putnam when he sought, 'mid Pomfret's Den,
The couchant eyes of coal in that black rift of rock.

And seven fair springs have shone, and seven wild winters blown,
Since in his bloody lair we grappled the Gray Wolf!
But 'twill toll, a century's knell, and our children's children tell
Of the Army and the Navy of the Gulf.