By the swollen flood Of the Mississippi, stumpy Grant is a mole Gnawing at Vicksburg. He has been blocked four times But he will carry that beaver-dam at last. There is no brilliant lamp in that dogged mind And no conceit of brilliance to shake the hand, But hand and mind can use the tools that they get. This long way out of Galena. Sherman is there And Sherman loves him and finds him hard to make out, In Sherman’s impatient fashion⁠—the quick, sharp man Seeing ten thousand things where the slow sees one And yet with a sort of younger brother awe At the infinite persistence of that slow will —They make a good pair of hunting dogs, Grant and Sherman, The nervous, explosive, passionate, slashing hound And the quiet, equable, deadly holder-on, Faded-brown as a cinnamon-bear in Spring⁠— See them like that, the brown dog and the white dog, Calling them back and forth through the scrubby woods After the little white scut of Victory, Or see them as elder brother and younger brother, But remember this. In their time they were famous men