At Arlington

by James Ryder Randall

The broken column, reared in air To him who made our country great, Can almost cast its shadow where The victims of a grand despair, In long, long ranks of death await The last loud trump, the Judgment-Sun, Which come for all, and, soon or late, Will come for those at Arlington.

In that vast sepulchre repose The thousands reaped from every fray; The Men in Blue who once uprose In battle-front to smite their foes— The Spartan Bands who wore the grey; The combat o'er, the death-hug done, In summer blaze or winter snows, They keep the truce at Arlington.

And almost lost in myriad graves, Of those who gained the unequal fight, Are mounds that hide Confederate braves, Who reck not how the North wind raves, In dazzling day or dimmest night, O'er those who lost and those who won; Death holds no parley which was right— Jehovah judges Arlington.

The dead had rest; the Dove of Peace Brooded o'er both with equal wings; To both had come that great surcease, The last omnipotent release From all the world's delirious stings. To bugle deaf and signal-gun, They slept, like heroes of old Greece, Beneath the glebe at Arlington.

And in the Spring's benignant reign, The sweet May woke her harp of pines; Teaching her choir a thrilling strain Of jubilee to land and main, She danced in emerald down the lines. Denying largesse bright to none, She saw no difference in the signs That told who slept at Arlington.

She gave her grasses and her showers To all alike who dreamed in dust; Her song-birds wove their dainty bowers Amid the jasmine buds and flowers, And piped with an impartial trust; Waifs of the air and liberal sun, Their guileless glees were kind and just To friend and foe at Arlington.

And 'mid the generous spring there came Some women of the land, who strove To make this funeral-field of fame Glad as the May-God's altar-flame, With rosy wreaths of mutual love— Unmindful who had lost or won, They scorned the jargon of a name— No North, no South, at Arlington.

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 Cæsar 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.