That since the roses die,

No mortal loveliness may long endure;
No joy outlast a sigh;

No passion's thrill, no labor's work remain
Beyond a season; that Decay doth reign;—
Though in the tyrant's very riot, sure,
Some pledge of hope is found

That all the universe is not a grave

And life sits somewhere crowned.

Not Tasso's soft persuasion unto sin
I find, dear rose, thy withered leaves within,
Nor any precept Epicurus gave ;

To me thou dost not breathe

A thought of festivals, or memory

Of woven, wine-dipped wreath,

Or kisses on ripe lips, or fond regret

For bounds by time to fleeting pleasures set,
Or wish to bring thy beauty back to thee.

To kiss thy leaves I bend,

And lo! The crash of cannon fills mine ears;
I see the banners blend

Into the battle smoke; and the long lines

Of marching men where glint of bayonet shines
Through clouds of dust; the hopes, the hates, the
Of old thrill through my heart;

Again the myriad ghosts of the great war
From out their cerements start;

[fears

Again the nation in the contest strains
Its every nerve; again the deep refrains
Of groan and cheer break on us from afar !

What mystery of power

To fill the mind with visions such as these
Lies in this scentless flower?

'T is three and twenty years this very June,
Since first it opened to the southern noon
And swung in languor to a southern breeze ;
And on the stalwart breast

Of one that wore the blue, while yet in bloom,
'T was set in gallant jest ;

In the long march's dust it drooped its head
And in the smoke of Gettysburg lay dead,
With many a life more precious finding doom.

Beside a farmer's home

In shade and shine this rose of battle grew,
What time the rolling drum

Announced the crisis of the war at hand,

As Meade pressed swiftly north through Maryland, And ever closer to Lee's columns drew;

On that grim, weary march

Rain seldom fell; the June sun fiercely glowed,
And seemed all things to parch;

The winds grew still, nor in their motion swung
The dust that round the lithe battalions clung
For miles, on many a winding country road.

The women stood in groups

And watched with tear-wet eyes and smiling lips
The marching of the troops;

The smiles came at the sight of manhood stern
Moving to sacrifice with unconcern;

The tears were for the battle's drear eclipse
That was so soon to fall

On many a home where then the sunshine slept-
The shadow of a pall;

And though their hopes went with the stripes and stars, Or lingered far away with stars and bars,

Yet they were women still—and smiled and wept!

And where this rosebud lush
Had blossomed into innocence and peace

Upon its modest bush,

A column halted for a rest at noon

And the tired soldiers, glad of such a boon,

Flung knapsacks off, stacked arms, and took their ease.

And there to one that quaffed

From the deep farmhouse well, with careless zest,

A luscious draught,

A fair girl said, scorn lurking round her mouth :
"Dare these men meet the veterans of the South ?"
Half earnestly she spoke, and half in jest.

The soldier's serious eyes

An instant flashed, and then grew soft again,
While yet the quick surprise

Vol. II.

Was flushing his bronzed cheek; but he was born
To reverence womanhood, and not to scorn;
And so disdained to wound her with disdain.
He spoke with quiet grace

In even tones, a smile both quaint and grave
Upon his firm, strong face:

"To wear in the next battle give to me

A rose," he said, “and then the rose will see!
In sobered mood she plucked this flower and gave.

It seems another age

When things like these were done; the rose's bloom
He took as battle gage,

And with his laughing comrades went his way,
Well knowing that the columns wide astray
Were fast converging for the day of doom!

O streams of rippling steel

That northward flowed with current ever true!
In thought we watched you wheel

Among the hills, a winding to and fro,

The weapons sparkling o'er the men below

Like glancing foam above the waves of blue!
We knew your end and source,

And that your torrents, crowned with portents dire,
Would keep their onward course

Till in the battle's plunge, with thunder's roar,

And scorching flames, your cleansing tides should pour Abroad, and save the nation as by fire!

The first day of July,

Just north of Gettysburg, the fight began
Whose memory will not die.

There lay along the outskirts of a wood

A regiment busy in the work of blood;

And he that wore the rose watched every man,
Alert, unvexed, intense,

And kept the firing cool, and fierce, and fast;
In front in column dense

Stern Southern valor stormed, and would not flinch,
Nor be denied, yet could not win an inch-
Till far outflanked our lines gave way at last.

Behind the frightened town,

On Cemetery Hill the rout was stayed;
And there the men lay down

And slept content among the graves that night;
And there this pallid rose, in soft moonlight,
Upon its wearer's heaving bosom swayed.
The gathering armies clashed,

And on the circling hills the second day,
Incessant cannon crashed;

And shot and shell tore up each reverent mound,
And flung the tombstones' shattered fragments round-
Poor rose, that heard the din of such a fray!

On the third day, behold!

It saw the climax of the battle come;

When calm, and stern, and bold