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Against each other with convulsive bound,
And the whole world stood still

To view the mighty war,

And hear the thundrous roar, While sheeted lightnings wrapped each plain and hill. Alas! how few came back From battle and from wrack ! Alas ! how many lie Beneath a Southern sky, Who never heard the fearful fight was done, And all they fought for won. Sweeter, I think, their sleep, More peaceful and more deep, Could they but know their wounds were not in vain, Could they but hear the grand triumphal strain, And see their homes unmarred by hostile tread. Ah ! let us trust it is so with our deadThat they the thrilling joy of triumph feel, And in that joy disdain the foeman's steel. We mourn for all, but each doth think of one

More precious to the heart than aught beside Some father, brother, husband, or some son

Who came not back, or coming, sank and died :

In him the whole sad list is glorified ! “He fell 'fore Richmond, in the seven long days

When battle raged from morn till blood-dewed eve, And lies there," one pale widowed mourner says,

And knows not most to triumph or to grieve. ' My boy fell at Fair Oaks,” another sighs; “ And mine at Gettysburg !” his neighbor cries, And that great name each sad-eyed listener

thrills. I think of one who vanished when the press Of battle surged along the Wilderness,

And mourned the North upon her thousand hills. O gallant brothers of the generous South,

Foes for a day and brothers for all time!

66

I charge you by the memories of our youth,

By Yorktown's field and Montezuma's clime,
Hold our dead sacred—let them quietly rest
In your unnumbered vales, where God thought best!
Your vines and flowers learned long since to forgive,
And o'er their graves a 'broidered mantle weave;
Be you as kind as they are, and the word
Shall reach the Northland with each summer bird,
And thoughts as sweet as summer shall awake
Responsive to your kindness, and shall make
Our peace the peace of brothers once again,
And banish utterly the days of pain.
And ye, O Northmen ! be ye not outdone

In generous thought and deed.
We all do need forgiveness, every one;

And they that give shall find it in their need. Spare of your flowers to deck the stranger's grave,

Who died for a lost cause:
A soul more daring, resolute, and brave

Ne'er won a world's applause !
(A brave man's hatred pauses at the tomb.)
For him some Southern home was robed in gloom,
Some wife or mother looked with longing eyes
Through the sad days and nights with tears and

sighs,Hope slowly hardening into gaunt Despair. Then let your foeman's grave remembrance share; Pity a higher charm to Valor lends, And in the realms of Sorrow all are friends. Yes, bring fresh flowers and strew the soldier's

grave, Whether he proudly lies

Beneath our Northern skies,
Or where the Southern palms their branches wave!
Let the bells toll and wild war-music swell,

And for one day the thought of all the past,
Of all those memories vast-

Come back and haunt us with its mighty spell !
Bring flowers, then, once again,
And

strew with fragrant rain
Of lilacs, and of roses white and red,
The dwellings of our dead.

HENRY PETERSON.

ODE FOR DECORATION-DAY.
THEY sleep so calm and stately,

Each in his graveyard bed,
It scarcely seems that lately
They trod the fields blood-red,

With fearless tread.
They marched and never halted,

They scaled the parapet,
The triple lines assaulted,
And paid without regret

The final debt.
The debt of slow accruing

A guilty nation made,
The debt of evil-doing,
Of justice long delayed,

'Twas this they paid.
On fields where Strife held riot,

And Slaughter fed his hounds,
Where came no sense of quiet,
Nor any gentle sounds,

They made their rounds.
They wrought without repining,

Till, weary watches o'er,
They passed the bounds confining
Our green, familiar shore,

Forevermore.

And now they sleep so stately,

Each in his graveyard bed,
So calmly and sedately
They rest, that once I said:

“ These men are dead.
“ They know not what sweet duty

We come each year to pay, Nor heed the blooms of beauty, The garland gifts of May,

Štrewn here to-day.

The night-time and the day-time,

The rise and set of sun,
The winter and the May-time,
To them whose work is done,

Are all as one."

Then o'er mine eyes there floated

A vision of the Land
Where their brave souls, promoted
To Heaven's own armies, stand

At God's right hand.

From out the mighty distance

I seemed to see them gaze Back on their old existence, Back on the battle-blaze

Of war's dread days.
“The flowers shall fade and perish,”

In larger faith spake I,
“ But these dear names we cherish
Are written in the sky,
And cannot die.'

THEODORE P. COOK, THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.

[This poem is founded upon an incident that occurred at Columbus, Miss., on Memorial-Day, 1867, when flowers were strewn upon the graves of Confederate and Federal soldiers alike.]

By the flow of the inland river,

Whence the fleets of iron have fled,
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,
Asleep are the ranks of the dead;
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;
Under the one, the Blue;

Under the other, the Gray.
These, in the robings of glory,

Those, in the gloom of defeat ,
All with the battle-blood gory,
In the dusk of eternity meet ;
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;
Under the laurel, the Blue;

Under the willow, the Gray.
From the silence of sorrowful hours

The desolate mourners go,
Lovingly laden with flowers
Alike for the friend and the foe;
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;
Under the roses, the Blue;

Under the lilies, the Gray
So, with an equal splendor,

The morning sun-rays fall,
With a touch impartially tender,
On the blossoms blooming for all;
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

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