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[This poem appeared very soon after the surrender of the Confederate armies, and was probably the first, as it is the finest, poetical expression of reverent regret for the Lost Cause, without any touch of bitterness in its loss. The author was a Catholic priest, who wrote a number of poems of merit, though none that appealed so strongly as this one does to the generous sympathy of the victor with the sorrow of the vanquished. The author was born in Norfolk, Va., August 15, 1839, and died in Louisville, Ky, April 22, 1886.-EDITOR.]

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URL that Banner, for 't is weary,

Round its staff 't is drooping dreary :

Furl it, fold it,-it is best ;
For there 's not a man to wave it,
And there 's not a sword to save it,
And there 's not one left to lave it
In the blood which heroes gave it,

Tbe Conquered Banner


And its foes now scorn and brave it :

Furl it, hide it,-let it rest!

Take the Banner down ! 't is tattered ;
Broken is its staff and shattered,
And the valiant hosts are scattered

Over whom it floated high.
Oh, 't is hard for us to fold it,
Hard to think there 's none to hold it,
Hard that those who once unrolled it

Now must furl it with a sigh!

Furl that Banner-furl it sadly ;
Once ten thousands hailed it gladly,
And ten thousands wildly, madly

Swore it should forever wave--
Swore that foemen's sword could never
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever,
And that flag should float forever

O’er their freedom, or their grave !

Furl it !—for the hands that grasped it,
And the hearts that fondly clasped it,

Cold and dead are lying low;
And the Banner-it is trailing,
While around it sounds the wailing,

Of its people in their woe;

For though conquered, they adore it-
Love the cold dead hands that bore it,
Weep for those who fell before it,
Pardon those who trailed and tore it;
And, oh, wildly they deplore it,

Now to furl and fold it so !

Furl that Banner ! True, 't is gory,
Yet 't is wreathed around with glory,
And 't will live in song and story

Though its folds are in the dust!
For its fame on brightest pages,
Penned by poets and by sages,
Shall go sounding down the ages-

Furl its folds though now we must!

Furl that Banner, softly, slowly ;
Treat it gently-it is holy,

For it droops above the dead;
Touch it not—unsold it never ;
Let it droop there, furled forever,–

For its people's hopes are fled. (Southern.]

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NTO a ward of the whitewashed halls

Where the dead and the dying lay, Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,

Somebody's darling was borne one daySomebody's darling, so young and brave;

Wearing yet on his sweet pale faceSoon to be hid in the dust of the grave

The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.

Matted and damp are the curls of gold

Kissing the snow of that fair young brow Pale are the lips of delicate mould

Somebody's darling is dying now.
Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow

Brush his wandering waves of gold;
Cross his hands on his bosom now-
Somebody's darling is still and cold.

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