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Chorus

Cover them over, yes, cover them over,
Parent and husband, brother and lover,
Crown in your hearts those dead heroes of ours,
Cover them over with beautiful flow'rs.

Cover the hearts that have beaten so high.
Beaten with hopes that were doomed but to die;
Hearts that have burned in the heat of the fray;
Hearts that have yearned for the home far away.
Once they were glowing with friendship and love,
Now their great souls have gone soaring above;
Bravely their blood to the nation they gave,
Then in her bosom they found them a grave.

Cho.

Cover the thousands who sleep far away,
Sleep where their friends cannot find them to-day,
They, who in mountain and hillside and dell,
Rest where they wearied, and lie where they fell.
Softly the grass blades creep round their repose;
Sweetly above them the wild flowret blows;
Zephyrs of freedom fly gently o'erhead,
Whispering prayers for the patriot dead.

Cho.

When the long years have rolled slowly away,
E'en to the dawn of earth's funeral day;
When, at the angel's loud trumpet and tread,
Rise up the faces and forms of the dead,

When the great world its last judgment awaits;
When the blue sky shall fling open its gates,
And our long columns march silently through,
Past the Great Captain for final review.

Chorus.

Blessings for garlands shall cover them over,
Parent and husband, brother and lover,
God will reward those dead heroes of ours,
Cover them over with beautiful flow'rs.

MEMORIAL DAY

ANONYMOUS

Memorial Day, with its sad and sacred memories, has again come. And as each new one makes its advent, we recall anew the great and tragic events that made the occasion for the day. Time in his rapid flight has borne us on till we are thirty-one years from the close of the great Civil War, in which thousands of lives were sacrificed and billions of treasure expendedo to save our country from dismemberment. The asperities and alienations engendered by the great struggle between freedom and slavery have largely passed away; and those who participated as soldiers on both sides, who are still living, fraternize with each other as brothers and fellow-citizens of one common country, on whose glorious banner is inscribed forever,

E pluribus unum. It is meet that those who sacrificed and died in the struggle, or who sacrificed and have since died, should be remembered and honored for the invaluable service they have rendered their country and humanity. Let the graves of the dead soldiers be decorated with flowers and wreaths of laurel, and the memory of their noble deeds revived anew in oratory and song.

THE WHITE BRIGADE 1

BY JOHN MACY

(On a recent Memorial Day, in New York City, while the veterans marched in the streets, processions of children, May parties postponed by a tardy spring, mingled with the crowds on the walks and in the parks.)

Between the cliffs of brick and stone,

Hoarse, like a river clamoring down
A cañon gorge, the quenchless moan

Of being echoes through the town.
The lurid streets with life are loud.

There is no hush of holiday
Upon the million-throated crowd

Where old men march—and children play.

For, see, the desert springs to light,

Like fragile fairies roamed away
From magic woods, all clad in white,
The children keep the feast of May.

From the Century Magazine.

1

Up the stern streets, through park and square,

They seek the shaded plots of green, Dear vaporous angels of the air,

Sweet phantoms from a mythic scene.

It is not real. Such elfin youth

To blossom 'mid this barren stone ! The bleak, loud city is the truth.

The vision of a dream is flown.

And yet it stays. The people part

To let the white processions through. Rude, slandered walls, your hidden heart

Is pure, if such were born in you.

And now with slow tap to the drag

Of aged feet, the steady drum Sounds where a cross street cleaves the crag,

And down the park the old troops come.

Strange interweaving of old gray

With delicate child white, all designed On the tense fabric of to-day

To-day with elder days entwined.

These ancient remnants tottering by

Were comrades to a host of boys, Brave young battalions thrown to die,

Now white like those new-budded joys.

Slow-footed age, time-conquered, bowed,

We march as once you marched. Through you We new recruits, this heedless crowd,

Are veterans, are victors, too.

White flame of childhood, we would throw

Our lives to shield you from a breath.
Pass on, old men, to peace, for, lo!

Life blooms among the ranks of death.

HONOR OUR PATRIOT DEAD

ANONYMOUS

Memorial Day is consecrated to the soldiers; it is dedicated to patriotism; around this sacred day cluster precious memories of our fallen brave. Over the silent chambers of our sleeping comrades we wreathe garlands of flowers-symbols of our love and gratitude. These graves are the Nation's shrine, the Mecca to which patriots journey to renew their devotion to the cause for which these patriots died. The fruits of their victories are a united country. This is a sacred heritage purchased by their valor and sealed by their blood. History is their encomium. Battlefields attest their courage.

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