As life’s unending column pours,
Two marshalled hosts are seen,—
Two armies on the trampled shores
That Death flows black between.
One marches to the drum-beat’s roll,
The wide-mouthed clarion’s bray,
And bears upon a crimson scroll,
“Our glory is to slay.”
One moves in silence by the stream,
With sad, yet watchful eyes,
Calm as the patient planet’s gleam
That walks the clouded skies.
Along its front no sabres shine,
No blood-red pennons wave;
Its banners bear the single line
For those no death-bed’s lingering shade;
At Honour’s trumpet call,
With knitted brow and lifted blade
In Glory’s arms they fall.
For these no clashing falchions bright,
No stirring battle-cry;
The bloodless stabber calls by night—
Each answers, “Here am I!”
For those the sculptor’s laurelled bust,
The builder’s marble pile,
The anthems pealing o’er their dust
Through long cathedral aisle.
For these the blossom-sprinkled turf
That floods the lonely graves,
When Spring rolls in her sea-green surf
In flowery-foaming waves.
Two paths lead upwards from below,
And angels wait above,
Who count each burning life-drop’s flow,
Though from the Hero’s bleeding breast
Her pulses Freedom drew,
Though the white lilies in her crest
Sprang from that scarlet dew,—
While Valour’s haughty champions wait
Till all their scars are shown,
Love walks unchallenged through the gate,
To sit beside the Throne!
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.