New York Dispatch

[Written for the New York Dispatch,]
FAST-DAY, JUNE 1. 1865.
By Clarence F. Buhler,
Though God in both embodies love.
In sunbeams at our feet we heed
But little what on clouds above
In darker, plainer type we read.
We garnered many a golden year,
Forgetting Him who gave the store;
He made our habitations drear
That we might look to Heaven the more.
Pure grows the air when thunders roar.
The sea is white that tempests toss;
And in the crucible of War
Our gold was winnowed from the dross.
Though patriots now are orphans all.
For Father Abraham is gone,
Sterner that cause, whose champions fall
Along the road side, marches on.
And He who watched through Yorktown's smoke,
And Valley Forge's starless night
Above our sires, has dealt the stroke.
Through us, that ends their half won fight.
No more their sad eyes from above
Look down upon His image spurned
At Slavery's feet: for when the dove
Unto our Nation's ark returned
Safe left upon the Northern crag
By the red floods—the prosperous airs
That arched them with the rainbow flag.
And bore her on, were freedman's prayers.
Then bare a martyr's brow to greet
Thy portion, whether storm or sun;
And, like a Paean, still repeat,
Thy will, O God, not ours, be done!