Grant (A Rhyme for the Campaign)

An honest man—a man without pretense.
Modest, but brave—though silent, full of sense;
His lightest fancies are substantial facts,
And his best thoughts translate themselves in acts.
No fogs of doubt obstruct his steady gaze,
No vague, dim shadow looming through the haze,
But all stands out clear, sharp and well-defined
Before the earnest challenge of his mind—
A mind that, in beginnings, sees the ends,
Explores, compares, weighs, gauges, comprehends.
And with a force resistless as the tides
Shapes to results whatever it decides; 
A clear, cool brain, well-balanced and compact,
That in to-days discerns to-morrow’s act,
And, faithful in resource, to all its needs
Measure the succor that must come in deeds:
A calm and lofty courage, that can cope
With direst perils, hoping against hope;
Patience that tires not, and an iron will,
Tenacious, stubborn and persistent still,
That naught can swerve from its one grand design,
To fight it out—and conquer—“on this line,”
From even disaster wresting full success,
Asin the conflict of “The Wilderness,”
And make all things to his purpose bend
Till “Appomattox” brings the glorious end;
Such are the traits that mark our CHOSEN MAN—
Note him, oh, world! and “match him, if you can!”
Where ‘er the thunders of his cannon pealed,
Rebellion to its fortressed centre reeled;
Where’er his banners blazed along the war,
They marked the path of Victory’s bloody car,
Till, one by one, before his legions, fell
Treason’s strongholds though deemed impregnable;
Its proudest chiefs his mastery confest,
And bowed, submissive, every haughty crest,
And the rent Union was restored
By Lincoln’s faith and Grant’s victorious sword.

Now—when the Hate that struck at Freedom’s life
Like a leashed hound’s fangs panting for the strife,
And perjured zealots of the bad “lost cause”
Trample on justice and defy the laws,
Kill, torture, ravage, till the very skies
Reek with their burnings and their butcheries;
Now—when the Nation needs her course to guide,
The same strong Hand that broke Rebellion’s pride,
The strenuous Will that never swerved nor bent,
But held its purpose to its first intent;
That loyal heart, to Duty ever true
That by just means doth noble ends pursue—
They are already—Heart, and Will, and Hand—
To do the work her patriots may demand:
To shield the weak, the lawless to restrain,
The Treason crush that lifts its head again;
Back to the kennels scourge the “Ku-Klux Klan,”
And the law’s ægis throw o’er every man,
‘Till right prevail and wrong and outrage cease,
And, to his prayer responsive, “Give us peace!”
The land shall cry, GRANT—VICTORY—AND PEACE!