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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=416620" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Grant At Rest-- August 8, 1885</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sir Launcelot rode overthwart and endlong in a wide forest, and held no<br>path but as wild adventure led him... And he returned and came again to his<br>horse, and took off his saddle and his bridle, and let him pasture; and<br>unlaced his helm, and ungirdled his sword, and laid him down to sleep upon<br>his shield before the cross. --Age of Chivalary</div><div style="margin:10px 0">_Grant_</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What shall we say of the soldier. Grant,<br>His sword put by and his great soul free?<br>How shall we cheer him now or chant<br>His requiem befittingly?<br>The fields of his conquest now are seen<br>Ranged no more with his armed men--<br>But the rank and file of the gold and green<br>Of the waving grain is there again.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Though his valiant life is a nation's pride,<br>And his death heroic and half divine,<br>And our grief as great as the world is wide,<br>There breaks in speech but a single line--:<br>We loved him living, revere him dead--!<br>A silence then on our lips is laid:<br>We can say no thing that has not been said,<br>Nor pray one prayer that has not been prayed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But a spirit within us speaks: and lo,<br>We lean and listen to wondrous words<br>That have a sound as of winds that blow,<br>And the voice of waters and low of herds;<br>And we hear, as the song flows on serene,<br>The neigh of horses, and then the beat<br>Of hooves that skurry o'er pastures green,<br>And the patter and pad of a boy's bare feet.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A brave lad, wearing a manly brow,<br>Knit as with problems of grave dispute,<br>And a face, like the bloom of the orchard bough,<br>Pink and pallid, but resolute;<br>And flushed it grows as the clover-bloom,<br>And fresh it gleams as the morning dew,<br>As he reins his steed where the quick quails boom<br>Up from the grasses he races through.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And ho! As he rides what dreams are his?<br>And what have the breezes to suggest--?<br>Do they whisper to him of shells that whiz<br>O'er fields made ruddy with wrongs redressed?<br>Does the hawk above him an Eagle float?<br>Does he thrill and his boyish heart beat high,<br>Hearing the ribbon about his throat<br>Flap as a Flag as the winds go by?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And does he dream of the Warrior's fame--<br>This Western boy in his rustic dress?<br>For in miniature, this is the man that came<br>Riding out of the Wilderness--!<br>The selfsame figure-- the knitted brow--<br>The eyes full steady-- the lips full mute--<br>And the face, like the bloom of the orchard bough,<br>Pink and pallid, but resolute.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ay, this is the man, with features grim<br>And stoical as the Sphinx's own,<br>That heard the harsh guns calling him,<br>As musical as the bugle blown,<br>When the sweet spring heavens were clouded o'er<br>With a tempest, glowering and wild,<br>And our country's flag bowed down before<br>Its bursting wrath as a stricken child.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thus, ready mounted and booted and spurred,<br>He loosed his bridle and dashed away--!<br>Like a roll of drums were his hoof-beats heard,<br>Like the shriek of the fife his charger's neigh!<br>And over his shoulder and backward blown,<br>We heard his voice, and we saw the sod<br>Reel, as our wild steeds chased his own<br>As though hurled on by the hand of God!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And still, in fancy, we see him ride<br>In the blood-red front of a hundred frays,<br>His face set stolid, but glorified<br>As a knight's of the old Arthurian days:<br>And victor ever as courtly too,<br>Gently lifting the vanquished foe,<br>And staying him with a hand as true<br>As dealt the deadly avenging blow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So brighter than all of the cluster of stars<br>Of the flag enshrouding his form to-day,<br>His face shines forth from the grime of wars<br>With a glory that shall not pass away:<br>He rests at last: he has borne his part<br>Of salutes and salvos and cheers on cheers--<br>But O the sobs of his country's heart,<br>And the driving rain of a nations tears!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=James+Whitcomb+Riley">James Whitcomb Riley</a><div class=q>
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path but as wild adventure led him... And he returned and came again to his
horse, and took off his saddle and his bridle, and let him pasture; and
unlaced his helm, and ungir..."></div>
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