Classic Poem

CANTON, OHIO, SEPTEMBER 30, 1907

HE said: " It is God's way:
His will, not ours be done. "
And o'er our land a shadow lay
That darkened all the sun.
The voice of jubilee
That gladdened all the air,
Fell sudden to a quavering key
Of suppliance and prayer.

He was our chief — our guide —
Sprung of our common Earth,
From youth's long struggle proved and tried
To manhood's highest worth:
Through toil, he knew all needs
Of all his toiling kind —
The favored striver who succeeds —
The one who falls behind.

The boy's young faith he still
Retained through years mature —
The faith to labor, hand and will,
Nor doubt the harvest sure —
The harvest of man's love —
A nation's joy that swells
To heights of Song, or deeps whereof
But sacred silence tells.

To him his Country seemed
Even as a Mother, where
He rested — slept; and once he dreamed —
As on her bosom there —
And thrilled to hear, within
That dream of her, the call
Of bugles and the clang and din
Of war. . . . And o'er it all

His rapt eyes caught the bright
Old Banner, winging wild
And beck'ning him, as to the fight . . .
When — even as a child —
He wakened — And the dream
Was real! And he leapt
As led the proud Flag through a gleam
Of tears the Mother wept.

His was a tender hand —
Even as a woman's is —
And yet as fixed, in Right's command,
As this bronze hand of his:
This was the Soldier brave —
This was the Victor fair —
This is the Hero Heaven gave
To glory here — and There.