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