James Whitcomb Riley - Grant at Rest August 8th 1885

Lyrics

Sir Launcelot rode overthwart and endlong in a wide forest, and held no path but as wild adventure led him... And he returned and came again to his horse, and took off his saddle and his bridle, and let him pasture; and unlaced his helm, and ungirdled his sword, and laid him down to sleep upon his shield before the cross. --Age of Chivalry What shall we say of the soldier. Grant His sword put by and his great soul free? How shall we cheer him now or chant His requiem befittingly? The fields of his conquest now are seen Ranged no more with his armed men-- But the rank and file of the gold and green Of the waving grain is there again Though his valiant life is a nation's 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 on our lips is laid: We can say no thing that has not been said Nor pray one prayer that has not been prayed But a spirit within us speaks: and lo We lean and listen to wondrous words That have a 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 o'er pastures green And the patter and pad of a boy's bare feet A brave lad, wearing a manly brow Knit as with problems of grave dispute And a face, like the bloom of the orchard bough Pink and pallid, but resolute; And flushed it grows as the clover-bloom And fresh it gleams as the morning dew As he reins his steed where the quick quails boom Up from the grasses he races through And ho! As he rides what dreams are his? And what have the breezes to suggest--? Do they whisper to him of shells that whiz O'er fields made ruddy with wrongs redressed? Does the hawk above him an Eagle float? Does he thrill and his boyish heart beat high Hearing the ribbon about his throat Flap as a Flag as the winds go by? And does he dream of the Warrior's fame-- This Western boy in his rustic dress? For in miniature, this is the man that came Riding out of the Wilderness--! The selfsame figure-- the knitted brow-- The eyes full steady-- the lips full mute-- And the face, like the bloom of the orchard bough Pink and pallid, but resolute Ay, this is the man, with features grim And stoical as the Sphinx's own That heard the harsh guns calling him As musical as the bugle blown When the sweet spring heavens were clouded o'er With a tempest, glowering and wild And our country's flag bowed down before Its bursting wrath as a stricken child Thus, ready mounted and booted and spurred He loosed his bridle and dashed away--! Like a roll of drums were his hoof-beats heard Like the shriek of the fife his charger's neigh! And over his shoulder and backward blown We heard his voice, and we saw the sod Reel, as our wild steeds chased his own As though hurled on by the hand of God! And still, in fancy, we see him ride In the blood-red front of a hundred frays His face set stolid, but glorified As a knight's of the old Arthurian days: And victor ever as courtly too Gently lifting the vanquished foe And staying him with a hand as true As dealt the deadly avenging blow So brighter than all of the cluster of stars Of the flag enshrouding his form to-day His face shines forth from the grime of wars With a 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's heart And the driving rain of a nations tears!