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PRIVATE BROWN'S REFLECTIONS.
The gathered ranks with muffled drums had grandly marched away—
The hills had caught the sunset gleam of Decoration Day;
The orator had held the throng on sorrow's trembling verge,
The choir had sung their saddest strains—the band had played a dirge;
Some graves that had neglected been through many lonely hours,
Had leaped again to transient fame, and blossomed forth with flowers;
And one old veteran, Private Brown, with gray, uncovered head,
Still wandered 'mongst those small green hills that held his comrades dead.
The hills had caught the sunset gleam of Decoration Day;
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The choir had sung their saddest strains—the band had played a dirge;
Some graves that had neglected been through many lonely hours,
Had leaped again to transient fame, and blossomed forth with flowers;
And one old veteran, Private Brown, with gray, uncovered head,
Still wandered 'mongst those small green hills that held his comrades dead.
He bent and stroked the humble mounds, with kind, old-fashioned word—
He called his comrades all by name, as if he knew they heard;
He said: “Ah, Private Johnny Smith! you lie so cold and still!
This isn't much like that summer day you spent at Malvern Hill!
The bellowing of the mighty guns your voice screamed loud above:
You yelled, ‘Come on and see how men fight for the land they love!’
You furnished heart for fifty fights; and when the war was through,
You vainly hunted round for work a crippled man could do.
They let you die, with want and debt to be your winding sheet;
But this bouquet of flowers they sent, is very nice and sweet.
He called his comrades all by name, as if he knew they heard;
He said: “Ah, Private Johnny Smith! you lie so cold and still!
This isn't much like that summer day you spent at Malvern Hill!
The bellowing of the mighty guns your voice screamed loud above:
You yelled, ‘Come on and see how men fight for the land they love!’
You furnished heart for fifty fights; and when the war was through,
You vainly hunted round for work a crippled man could do.
They let you die, with want and debt to be your winding sheet;
But this bouquet of flowers they sent, is very nice and sweet.
“Ah, Jimmy Jones! I recollect the day they brought you back:
They marched your body through the street, 'neath banners draped in black.
Your funeral sermon glittered well: it told how brave you died;
The tears your poor old mother shed, were partly tears of pride.
None left to-day to lean upon but country and her God,
She crept from yonder poor-house door to kiss that bit of sod.
It's hard, my boy, but nations all are likely to forget;
And God must take His own good time to make them pay a debt.
The sweet forget-me-nots that grow above your faithful breast,
Are types of His good memory, boy, and He knows what is best.
They marched your body through the street, 'neath banners draped in black.
Your funeral sermon glittered well: it told how brave you died;
The tears your poor old mother shed, were partly tears of pride.
None left to-day to lean upon but country and her God,
She crept from yonder poor-house door to kiss that bit of sod.
It's hard, my boy, but nations all are likely to forget;
And God must take His own good time to make them pay a debt.
The sweet forget-me-nots that grow above your faithful breast,
Are types of His good memory, boy, and He knows what is best.
“Philander Johnson, from the plains we left you on as dead,
You carried to the prison-pen a keepsake made of lead;
You starved there for your country's good—at last you broke away.
And got in time to Gettysburg to help them save the day.
You hired a man to ask for you a pension, 'twould appear:
Your papers lost—they put you off from weary year to year.
And when at last you took your less-than-thirty cents a day,
You had to fight to keep the law from taking it away.
Some school-boy doctor every month must probe your aching side,
And thump you like a tenor drum, to find out if you lied.
You cost the Nation little, now—old hero of the fray—
It sent some very pretty flowers to strew you with to-day.
You carried to the prison-pen a keepsake made of lead;
You starved there for your country's good—at last you broke away.
And got in time to Gettysburg to help them save the day.
You hired a man to ask for you a pension, 'twould appear:
Your papers lost—they put you off from weary year to year.
And when at last you took your less-than-thirty cents a day,
You had to fight to keep the law from taking it away.
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And thump you like a tenor drum, to find out if you lied.
You cost the Nation little, now—old hero of the fray—
It sent some very pretty flowers to strew you with to-day.
“Yes, Lemuel White; this little flag is all that's left to mark
The place where you retired so young, to chambers cold and dark.
The wooden slab I put up here so men your deeds could know,
Was broken down by sundry beasts, not many months ago.
But yonder monument upreared upon the village green,
Is partly yours, although your name is nowhere to be seen;
The country had your body, boy, it gives to God your soul;
It needed not your name except upon the muster roll!
The place where you retired so young, to chambers cold and dark.
The wooden slab I put up here so men your deeds could know,
Was broken down by sundry beasts, not many months ago.
But yonder monument upreared upon the village green,
Is partly yours, although your name is nowhere to be seen;
The country had your body, boy, it gives to God your soul;
It needed not your name except upon the muster roll!
“Forgive me, boys—forgive me, God! if I bad blood display;
But flowers seem cheap to men whose hearts are aching day by day
Forgive me, every woman true, whose tender, thrilling hand
Has lifted up to bless and soothe the saviors of the land.
Forgive me, every manly heart that knows the fearful strain
Of standing 'twixt America and blood and death and pain.
Forgive me, all who know enough to fight the future foe,
By doing justice to the ones who fought so long ago!
It is to those who trample us, that I feel called to say,
That flowers look cheap to those who starve and suffer day by day!
But flowers seem cheap to men whose hearts are aching day by day
Forgive me, every woman true, whose tender, thrilling hand
Has lifted up to bless and soothe the saviors of the land.
Forgive me, every manly heart that knows the fearful strain
Of standing 'twixt America and blood and death and pain.
Forgive me, all who know enough to fight the future foe,
By doing justice to the ones who fought so long ago!
It is to those who trample us, that I feel called to say,
That flowers look cheap to those who starve and suffer day by day!
The sun had fallen out of view; the night came marching down;
The twinkle of the window-lights came creeping from the town.
The band was playing cheerful airs—glad voices decked the scene
And dancing were the youths and maids upon the village green.
The gloomy graves were half forgot, and pleasure ruled the night;
But God has ways to teach us yet, that Private Brown was right.
The twinkle of the window-lights came creeping from the town.
The band was playing cheerful airs—glad voices decked the scene
And dancing were the youths and maids upon the village green.
The gloomy graves were half forgot, and pleasure ruled the night;
But God has ways to teach us yet, that Private Brown was right.
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