THE DEATH OF GRANT
by Ambrose Bierce
(1842-1914?)

Father! whose hard and cruel law
   Is part of thy compassion's plan,
   Thy works presumptuously we scan
For what the prophets say they saw.

Unbidden still the awful slope
   Walling us in we climb to gain
   Assurance of the shining plain
That faith has certified to hope.

In vain! -- beyond the circling hill
   The shadow and the cloud abide.
   Subdue the doubt, our spirits guide
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 deed
Too simply wise, too humbly grave.

The cannon syllabled his name;
   His shadow shifted o'er the land,
   Portentous, as at his demand
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 right
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 allayed
War's giant animosities.

Let us have peace: our clouded eyes,
   Fill, Father, with another light,
   That we may see with clearer sight
Thy servant's soul in Paradise.

Ulysses S. Grant