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, Sweeter, I think, their sleep, More peaceful and more deep, Could they but know their wounds were not in vain, We mourn for all, but each doth think of one 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, I charge you by the memories of our youth, And ye, O Northmen ! be ye not outdone 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! And for one day the thought of all the past- 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, They marched and never halted, The debt of slow accruing On fields where Strife held riot, They made their rounds. They wrought without repining, Our green, familiar shore, Forevermore. And now they sleep so stately, They rest, that once I said: They know not what sweet duty "The night-time and the day-time, Then o'er mine eyes there floated Where their brave souls, promoted From out the mighty distance "The flowers shall fade and perish," "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, These, in the robings of glory, Under the willow, the Gray. From the silence of sorrowful hours Lovingly laden with flowers Alike for the friend and the foe; So, with an equal splendor, Waiting the judgment day; |