Between their pious thought and God
Stood files of men with brutal steel;
The garlands placed on "Rebel sod”
Were trampled in the common clod,
To die beneath the hireling heel.
Facing this triumph of the Hun,
Our Smoky Casar gave no nod,
To keep the peace at Arlington.
Jehovah judged—abashing man—
For in the vigils of the night,
His mighty storm-avengers ran
Together in one choral clan,
Rebuking wrong, rewarding right;
Plucking the wreaths from those who won,
The tempest heaped them dewy-bright
On Rebel graves at Arlington.
And when the morn came young and fair,
Brimful of blushes ripe and red,
Knee-deep in sky-sent roses there,
Nature began her earliest prayer
Above triumphant Southern dead.
So, in the dark and in the sun,
Our Cause survives the Tyrant's tread,
And sleeps to wake at Arlington.
[ 52 ]
