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that ever shook the earth with its tread, and engaged in a holier cause than ever engaged soldiers before.

What defenders, my countrymen, have we now? We have the remnant of this old, magnificent, matchless army, of which I have been speaking, and then as allies in any future war, we have the brave men who fought against us on Southern battlefields. The Army of Grant and the Army of Lee are together. They are one now in faith, in hope, in fraternity, in purpose, and in an invincible patriotism. And, therefore, the country is in no danger. In justice strong, in peace secure, and in devotion to the flag all one.

HYMN FOR MEMORIAL DAY

Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S. C.

BY HENRY TIMROD

Sleep sweetly in your humble graves

Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause!
Though yet no marble column craves

The pilgrim here to pause,
In seeds of laurel in the earth

The blossom of your fame is blown,
And somewhere, waiting for its birth,

The shaft is in the stone!

Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years

Which keep in trust your storied tombs,
Behold! your sisters bring their tears

And these memorial blooms.

Small tributes; but your shades will smile

More proudly on these wreaths to-day
Than when some cannon-molded pile

Shall overlook this bay.

Stoop, angels, hither from the skies !

There is no holier spot of ground
Than where defeated valor lies

By mourning beauty crowned.

HEROES OF THE SOUTH

From an Ode on the Valor and Sufferings of

Confederate Soldiers

BY PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE

Four deadly years we fought,
Ringed by a girdle of unfaltering fire
That coiled and hissed in lessening circles nigher.

Blood dyed the Southern wave;
From ocean border to calm inland river,
There was no pause, no peace, no respite ever.

Blood of our bravest brave
Drenched in a scarlet rain the western lea,
Swelled the hoarse waters of the Tennessee,
Incarnadined the gulfs, the lakes, the rills,

And from a hundred hills
Steamed in a mist of slaughter to the skies,
Shutting all hope of heaven from mortal eyes.

The Beaufort blooms were wither'd on the stem;

The fair Gulf City in a single night

Lost her imperial diadem; And wheresoe'er men's troubled vision roamed They viewed Might towering o'er the humbled crest of

Right!

.

But for a time, but for a time, O God! The innate forces of our knightly blood Rallied, and by the mount, the fen, the flood,

Upraised the tottering standards of our race. O grand Virginia ! though thy glittering glaive Lies sullied, shattered in a ruthless grave,

How it flashed once!

They dug their trenches deep (The implacable foe), they ranged their lines of wrath; But watchful ever on the imminent path

Thy steel-clad genius stood; North, South, East, West,—they strove to pierce thy

shield: Thou wouldst not yield ! Until-unconquered, yea, unconquered still Nature's weakened forces answered not thy will, And gored with wound on wound, Thy fainting limbs and forehead sought the ground; And with thee, the young nation fell, a pall Solemn and rayless, covering one and all !

God's ways are marvelous; here we stand to-day
Discrown'd, and shorn in wildest disarray,
The mock of earth! yet never shone the sun
On sterner deeds, or nobler victories won.

Not in the field alone; ah, come with me
To the dim bivouac by the winter's sea;
Mark the fair sons of courtly mothers crouch

O'er flickering fires; but gallant still, and gay
As on some bright parade. Or mark the couch

In reeking hospitals, whereon is laid The latest scion of a line perchance Whose veins were royal. Close your blurred romance, Blurred by the dropping of a maudlin tear, And watch the manhood here;

That firm but delicate countenance, Distorted sometimes by an awful pang, Borne in meek patience. When the trumpets rang " To horse!” but yester-morn, that ardent boy Sprang to his charger, thrilled with hope and joy To the very finger-tips; and now he lies, The shadows deepening in those falcon eyes,

But calm and undismayed As if the Death that chills him, brow and breast, Were some fond bride who whispered, “Let us rest!”

Enough! 'tis over! the last gleam of hope
Hath melted from our mournful horoscope

Of all, of all bereft;

Only to us are left
Our buried heroes and their matchless deeds.
These cannot pass; they hold the vital seeds
Which in some far, untracked, unvisioned hour
May burst to vivid bud and glorious flower.

Meanwhile, upon the nation's broken heart
Her martyrs sleep. Oh, dearer far to her
Than if each son, a wreathèd conqueror,

Rode in triumphant state

The loftiest crest of fate;
Oh, dearer far, because outcast and low,

She yearns above them in her awful woe. (Southern.)

FROM “AN ODE IN TIME OF HESITATION”1

1900

ROBERT GOULD SHAW

BY WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY

The wars we wage
Are noble, and our battles still are won
By justice for us, ere we lift the gage.
We have not sold our loftiest heritage.
The proud republic hath not stooped to cheat
And scramble in the market place of war;
Her forehead weareth yet its solemn star.
Here is her witness: this, her perfect son,
This delicate and proud New England soul
Who leads despised men, with just-unshackled feet,
Up the large ways where death and glory meet,
To show all peoples that our shame is done,
That once more we are clean and spirit-whole.

Crouched in the sea fog on the moaning sand
All night he lay, speaking some simple word
From hour to hour to the slow minds that heard,
Holding each poor life gently in his hand
By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

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