Of sea-captains young or old, and the mates, and of all intrepid sailors, Of the few, very choice, taciturn, whom fate can never surprise nor death dismay.
But damn that which spends itself with no thought of the stain, pains, dismay, feebleness, it is bequeathing.
Grieve not so, dear mother, (the just-grown daughter speaks through her sobs, The little sisters huddle around speechless and dismay’d,) See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better.
So it is—but now it seems to me, when it cannot be help’d, that defeat is great, And that death and dismay are great.
I look where the ship helplessly heads end on, I hear the burst as she strikes, I hear the howls of dismay, they grow fainter and fainter.
Thee coil’d in evil times my country, with craft and black dismay, with every meanness, treason thrust upon thee, This common marvel I beheld—the parent thrush I watch’d feeding its young, The singing thrush whose tones of joy and faith ecstatic, Fail not to certify and cheer my soul.
Death of General Grant As one by one withdraw the lofty actors, From that great play on history’s stage eterne, That lurid, partial act of war and peace—of old and new contending, Fought out through wrath, fears, dark dismays, and many a long suspense; All past—and since, in countless graves receding, mellowing, Victor’s and vanquish’d—Lincoln’s and Lee’s—now thou with them, Man of the mighty days—and equal to the days!