. Bugle-echoes; a collection of the poetry of the civil war, northern and southern; . r you the flag is flung—for you thebugle trills \ 292 BUGLE-ECHOES: For you bouquets and ribbond wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;For you they call, the swaying mass, their eagerfaces turning; Here Captain! dear father!This arm beneath your head ; It is some dream that on the deckYouve fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will:The ship is anchord safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;from fearful trip the vi
. Bugle-echoes; a collection of the poetry of the civil war, northern and southern; . r you the flag is flung—for you thebugle trills \ 292 BUGLE-ECHOES: For you bouquets and ribbond wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;For you they call, the swaying mass, their eagerfaces turning; Here Captain! dear father!This arm beneath your head ; It is some dream that on the deckYouve fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will:The ship is anchord safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;from fearful trip the victor ship comes in with ob-ject won: Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!But I, with mournful tread,Walk the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead. Walt Whitman. ABRAHAM LINCOLN. {Summer, 1865.] Dead is the roll of the drums,And the distant thunders die,They fade in the far-off sky; And a lovely summer comes,Like the smile of Him on high. Lulled the storm and the onset; Earth lies in a sunny swoon ; Stiller splendor of noon,Softer glory of sunset, Milder starlight and moon!. ABRAHAM LINCOLN. {Seepages 201 and 292.) POEMS OF THE CIVIL WAR. 293 For the kindly Seasons love us; They smile over trench and clod,(Where we left the bravest of us,)— Theres a brighter green of the sod,And a holier calm above us In the blessed Blue of God. The roar and ravage were vain; And Nature, that never yields,Is busy with sun and rainAt her old sweet work again On the lonely battle-fields. How the tall white daisies grow Where the grim artillery rolled!(Was it only a moon ago ? It seems a century old,)— And the bee hums in the clover, As the pleasant June comes on;Aye, the wars are all over,— But our good Father is gone. There was tumbling of traitor fort, Flaming of traitor fleet,—Lighting of city and port, Clasping in square and street. There was thunder of mine and gun, Cheering by mast and tent,—When—his dread work all done,And his high fame full won— Died the good Presiden
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