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The Death Of Grant

Father! whose hard and cruel law  Is part of thy compassion's plan,  Thy works presumptuously we

For what the prophets say they saw.

Unbidden still the awful slope  Walling us in we climb to gain  Assurance of the shining

That faith has certified to hope.

In vain! — beyond the circling hill  The shadow and the cloud abide.  Subdue the doubt, our spirits

To trust the record and be still.

To trust it loyally as he  Who, heedful of his high design,  Ne'er raised a seeking eye to thine,

But wrought thy will unconsciously.

Disputing not of chance or fate,  Nor questioning of cause or creed:  For anything but duty's

Too simply wise, too humbly grave.

The cannon syllabled his name;  His shadow shifted o'er the land,  Portentous, as at his

Successive battalions sprang to flame!

He flared the continent with fire,  The rivers ran in lines of light!  Thy will be done on earth — if

Or wrong he cared not to inquire.

His was the heavy hand, and his  The service of the despot blade;  His the soft answer that

War's giant animosities.

Let us have peace: our clouded eyes,  Fill,

Father, with another light,  That we may see with clearer

Thy servant's soul in Paradise.

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Ambrose Bierce

Ambrose Gwinnett Bierce (June 24, 1842– circa 1914) was an American short story writer, journalist, poet, and Civil War veteran. His book The De…

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