The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1885-08-09

AT REsT--AUG. s. 1885.

AT REST--AUG. D, 1850.
Read at the Memorial Meeting at Delphi, Ind.
Sir Launcelot rod, overthwart and endong in widl
rest and held path but as wild adventure LED
And no returned and came again to bis
rise, and took off his saddle and his bride and let
m pasture; and unaced his helm and ungrdled hi9
1ord' and laid MIN down 70 sleep upon his shield be-
re the cross.
Ago of ChvaIry.
What shall we say of the soldier Grant,
His sword put by and mis- great soul freel
How shall we cheer him now or chant
His requiem befttinglyl
The fields of his eonquests now are seen
hanged no more with his armed men
But the rank and file of the gold and green
Vi the waving grain is there again
Though his valiant life is q nations pride,
And his death heroic and half divine,
And our grief as great as the world is wide
There breaks in speech but a single line:-
We loved him living, revere him dead
A silence then our lips is laid:
We can say no thing that has not been said,
Nor pray one prayer that has not been prayed.
But spirit within US speaks, and 10.
We lean and listen to wondrous words
That have sound as of winds that blow,
And the voice of waters, and low of herds:
And we hear, as the song flows on serene,
The neigh of horses and then the beat
Of hooves that skurry, Ger pastures green,
And the patter and pad of boys bare feet.
A brave lad wearing manly brow
Knit as with problems of grave dispute,
And face, like the bloom of the orchard boughs
Pink and pallid, but resolute;
And flushed it grows the clover bloom
And fresh it CLEANS as the morning dew,
AS he reins his steed where the quick quails boon
Up from the grasses he races through.
And ho as he rides what dreams are hisi
And what have the breezes to suggest
Do they whisper to him of the shells that whis
Der fields made ruddy with wrongs redressedi
Does the hawk above him an eagle foatl
Does he thrill and his boyish heart beat high.
Hearing the ribbon about his throat
Flap flag the winds go byl
And does he dream of the warriors fame
This Western boy in his rustic dressl--
For, in miniature, this is the man that came
Riding out of the Wilderness
The self-same igure-the knitted brow
The eye full steady-the lips full mute
And the face, like the bloom of the orchard bough
Pink and pallid, but resolute!
Aye, this is the man, with features grim
And stoical as the Sphinx's own,
That heard the harsh guns calling him,
AS musical As bugle blown;
When the sweet spring weather was clouded o'ef
With a tempest glowerng fierce and wild.
And our country's flag bowed down before
It's bursting wrath stricken child
Thus ready mounted and booted and spurred
lie loosed his bride and dashed away
Like roll of drums were his hoof beats heard
Like the Shrek of the fife his chargers neigh
And over his shoulder and backward blown,
We heard his voice, and we saw the sod
Reel as wild steeds chased his own,
AS though hurled Oh by the hand of Godl
And still, in fancy, see him ride
In the blood-red front of hundred trays
His face set stolid but glorfed
AS knights of the old Arthurian days:
And victor ever courtly, too
Gently lifting the vanquished foe.
And staying him with hand as true
AS dealt the deadly avenging blow.
So, brighter than all of the cluster of stars
Of the flag enshroudng his form to-day.
His face shines forth from the CRIME of wars
With glory that shall not pass away:
He rests at last: he has borne his part
Of salutes and salvos and cheers on cheers
But O, the sobs of his country heart
And the driving rain of nations tears
Soldiers! look on his face the last,
With never tremble of lip or lid;
Look on the hero, you file past,
And front his foe as your leader did
For still you may see, in the deepest dole
And the darkest night of your discomfort
The great white light of his loyal soul
Ablaze in the midmost armament.
james Whitcomb Riley.