 | City Festivals |  |
I.
John Jones of Philadelphia was festively inclined;Possessed obese anatomy and glad gregarious mind;
A man of wealthy bachelorhood; with gracious power and will
Quite happy oft to make himself and others happier still.
And every time a famous Yankee anniversary came,
Arrangements promptly he prepared to celebrate the same:
The January day when first Ben Franklin glanced upon
The Boston which acquired that day her most illustrious son;
The frigid February date when Washington first smiled
Upon the country that was yet to call itself his child;
The raw March day when Quakers made Concession's proclamation,
“Early in the following March (1677), the Quaker proprietors completed and published a body of laws under the singular title of Concessions. But the name was significant, for everything was accorded to the people. The first simple code enacted by the Friends in America rivalled the charter of Connecticut in the liberality and purity of its principles. ... The doctrines of the Concessions were reaffirmed. Men of all races and of all religions were declared to be equal before the law. No superiority was conceded to rank or title, to wealth or royal birth.”—
Ridpath's History of the United States.Thus furnishing a germ and hint for our own Declaration;
The weeping April day when, with a baby voice's aid,
Young Thomas Jefferson his first free utterance loudly made;
The sweet May day on which, amid the tear-drops' fragrant showers,
War-mourners covered first the graves of those they loved with flowers;
The famous seventeenth day of June, when, with new-welded will,
Americans both lost and won The Battle of the Hill;
The sultry summer day when, set by passion's earthquake free,
A new-found nation showed its head above Oppression's sea;
The August day when Fulton first, without a stitch of sail,
Climbed up the Hudson's liquid stair, in Acclamation's gale;
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That made America the gift of valiant La Fayette;
The gold October day in which Columbus bent the knee,
And thanked his God for showing him a refuge for the free;
The bright November day, when, driven by patriot endeavor,
Armed Britons trimmed reluctant sails, and left New York forever;
The bright December day on which the Mayflower's frozen band
Stepped on the famous Pilgrim Rock, and thence to Freedom's land;
And several other days that came into his heart and mind,
On which the western world had served the cause of humankind.
And this is how John Jones observed the thirtieth morn of May:
He gathered thirty veteran braves who loved the mournful day,
And strewed their banquet-hall with flowers; for, as he often said,
He did not like to have them wait for wreaths, till they were dead.
And when the banqueting was done, they held their glasses high,
In silent reverence, while they drank to comrades in the sky;
And then came speeches, songs, and rhymes, that bred the laugh and cheer,
Or called a gentle sadness forth, and many a silent tear;
And once a veteran, who could feel the words upon their way,
Recited this short monologue of Decoration Day:
HEAR THE DRUMS MARCH BY.
Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, hear the drums march by!
This is Decoration Day. Hurry, and be spry!
Wheel me to the window, girl; fling it open high!
Crippled of the body, now, and blinded of the eye,
Sarah, let me listen while the drums march by.
This is Decoration Day. Hurry, and be spry!
Wheel me to the window, girl; fling it open high!
Crippled of the body, now, and blinded of the eye,
Sarah, let me listen while the drums march by.
Hear 'em; how they roll! I can feel 'em in my soul.
Hear the beat—beat—o' the boots on the street;
Hear the sweet fife cut the air like a knife;
Hear the tones grand of the words of command;
Hear the walls nigh shout back their reply;
Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, hear the drums dance by!
Blind as a bat, I can see 'em for all that;
Old Colonel Ray, stately an' gray,
Riding, slow and solemn, at head of the column;
There's Major Bell, sober now, and well;
Old Lengthy Bragg, still a-bearing of the flag;
There's old Strong, that I tented with so long;
There's the whole crowd, hearty an' proud!
Hey, boys, say! can't you glance up this way?
Here's an old comrade, crippled now, and gray!
This is too much. Girl, throw me my crutch!
I can see—I can walk—I can march—I could fly!
No, I won't sit still an' let the boys march by!
Hear the beat—beat—o' the boots on the street;
Hear the sweet fife cut the air like a knife;
Hear the tones grand of the words of command;
Hear the walls nigh shout back their reply;
Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, hear the drums dance by!
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Old Colonel Ray, stately an' gray,
Riding, slow and solemn, at head of the column;
There's Major Bell, sober now, and well;
Old Lengthy Bragg, still a-bearing of the flag;
There's old Strong, that I tented with so long;
There's the whole crowd, hearty an' proud!
Hey, boys, say! can't you glance up this way?
Here's an old comrade, crippled now, and gray!
This is too much. Girl, throw me my crutch!
I can see—I can walk—I can march—I could fly!
No, I won't sit still an' let the boys march by!
Oh! I fall and I flinch; I can't go an inch!
No use to flutter; no use to try.
Where's my strength? Hunt down at the front;
There's where I left it. No need to sigh;
All the milk's spilt; there's no use to cry.
Plague o' these tears, and the moaning in my ears!
Part of a war is to suffer and to die;
I must sit still, and let the drums march by.
No use to flutter; no use to try.
Where's my strength? Hunt down at the front;
There's where I left it. No need to sigh;
All the milk's spilt; there's no use to cry.
Plague o' these tears, and the moaning in my ears!
Part of a war is to suffer and to die;
I must sit still, and let the drums march by.
Part of a war is to suffer and to die—
Suffer and to die—suffer and to—Why!
Of all the crowd I just yelled at so loud,
There's hardly a one but is killed, dead, and gone!
All the old regiment, excepting only I,
Marched out of sight in the country of the night.
That was a spectre band went past so grand.
All the old boys are a-tenting in the sky—
Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, hear the drums moan by!
And then a girl arrayed in black, her eyes cast sadly down,Suffer and to die—suffer and to—Why!
Of all the crowd I just yelled at so loud,
There's hardly a one but is killed, dead, and gone!
All the old regiment, excepting only I,
Marched out of sight in the country of the night.
That was a spectre band went past so grand.
All the old boys are a-tenting in the sky—
Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, hear the drums moan by!
Rehearsed a veteran soldier's griefs, in words of Private Brown:
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.
And last of all for them was read, with martial tone and mien.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.
A tribute to the famous dead, and called,
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OUR GUESTS UNSEEN.
Who are the guests in this festal throng?
Many are here that we love and see:
Men who have heard the soprano song
Of flying bullets that death set free;
Men who left a part of their days
Off in the field where the blood stains are;
Men who had dropped the sweet home-ways
Out of their hands, to grasp a star.
Honor to those who are living yet!
Time shall their laurels make more green!
But at this hour we must not forget
Those we may call our guests unseen.
Many are here that we love and see:
Men who have heard the soprano song
Of flying bullets that death set free;
Men who left a part of their days
Off in the field where the blood stains are;
Men who had dropped the sweet home-ways
Out of their hands, to grasp a star.
Honor to those who are living yet!
Time shall their laurels make more green!
But at this hour we must not forget
Those we may call our guests unseen.
One is here whose piercing eyes
Sharpened young for his country's sake;
Craving more than ambition's prize—
Great with the plans that brave men make.
Once he saw the flag of the foe
Mocking a history-hallowed town:
He said, “That banner must be brought low—
I will go myself and haul it down!”
He climbed the dangerous, giddy stair—
He braved the ambushes that he passed;
He did not send, but himself went there,
And stripped the flag from the rebel mast.
His dark eyes flashed in the morning dawn,
But he fell by a foeman's treacherous crime;
His heart stopped there, but his soul went on,
And joined the bravest of every clime.
His body sank to untimely rest—
The glory he sought was snatched away;
But we know that he did his noblest best,
And gallant Ellsworth is here to-day!
Sharpened young for his country's sake;
Craving more than ambition's prize—
Great with the plans that brave men make.
Once he saw the flag of the foe
Mocking a history-hallowed town:
He said, “That banner must be brought low—
I will go myself and haul it down!”
He climbed the dangerous, giddy stair—
He braved the ambushes that he passed;
He did not send, but himself went there,
And stripped the flag from the rebel mast.
His dark eyes flashed in the morning dawn,
But he fell by a foeman's treacherous crime;
His heart stopped there, but his soul went on,
And joined the bravest of every clime.
His body sank to untimely rest—
The glory he sought was snatched away;
But we know that he did his noblest best,
And gallant Ellsworth is here to-day!
Comes another: so bravely rash,
And rashly brave, yet steady still;
Turbulent as the thunder's crash,
But firm as the rocks of an Eastern hill.
And through the valleys and o'er the plain,
The drum of his horsemen's hoof-beats rolled;
Death knew the pull of his bridle rein,
And victory gleamed from his locks of gold.
He fought till the Union sky was bright,
Then flashed his sword in a western sun;
He fell in civilization's fight,
And died ere half of his days were done.
He camps in the broad blue fields above;
He needs no laurels upon his brow;
He comes once more for his comrades' love,
And dashing Custer is with us now!
And rashly brave, yet steady still;
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But firm as the rocks of an Eastern hill.
And through the valleys and o'er the plain,
The drum of his horsemen's hoof-beats rolled;
Death knew the pull of his bridle rein,
And victory gleamed from his locks of gold.
He fought till the Union sky was bright,
Then flashed his sword in a western sun;
He fell in civilization's fight,
And died ere half of his days were done.
He camps in the broad blue fields above;
He needs no laurels upon his brow;
He comes once more for his comrades' love,
And dashing Custer is with us now!
Another: a silent, mighty soul,
Who rose from the plane of common things,
To half of the fighting world's control,
And starred in the list of Triumph's kings.
When humbly toiling for daily bread,
When soothed by Luxury's rich caress,
When measuring acres of hapless dead,
Or flushed with the giddy draught, success;
Striving in blood-red clouds of woe
To lead the land 'neath victory's sun,
Or taking the sword of a fallen foe,
And writing the great words, “War is done;”
Or ruling the marble halls of state,
Thrust far to the statesman's utmost goal,
Or ruined by those he found too late
Were friends of his purse and not his soul;
Or toiling on Mount McGregor's height,
Longing for days that would let him die,
Waging meanwhile a sturdy fight
Whenever the foe Despair came nigh;
From earliest life to latest breath,
Through valleys of woe, o'er hills of pride,
Through glories of life and glooms of death,
His heart and his brain marched side by side.
The Hudson's shore has his death-stilled heart;
His hands in that hermit-tomb may rest;
But heroes and graves dwell far apart,
And Grant to-day is our unseen guest!
Who rose from the plane of common things,
To half of the fighting world's control,
And starred in the list of Triumph's kings.
When humbly toiling for daily bread,
When soothed by Luxury's rich caress,
When measuring acres of hapless dead,
Or flushed with the giddy draught, success;
Striving in blood-red clouds of woe
To lead the land 'neath victory's sun,
Or taking the sword of a fallen foe,
And writing the great words, “War is done;”
Or ruling the marble halls of state,
Thrust far to the statesman's utmost goal,
Or ruined by those he found too late
Were friends of his purse and not his soul;
Or toiling on Mount McGregor's height,
Longing for days that would let him die,
Waging meanwhile a sturdy fight
Whenever the foe Despair came nigh;
From earliest life to latest breath,
Through valleys of woe, o'er hills of pride,
Through glories of life and glooms of death,
His heart and his brain marched side by side.
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His hands in that hermit-tomb may rest;
But heroes and graves dwell far apart,
And Grant to-day is our unseen guest!
Another: a lithe, commanding form,
Kind features, stern with a soldier-gaze:
A cliff of rock in a battle storm,
A garden of smiles in peaceful days.
He burned belligerent cities low,
He planted ruin on every side,
But offered love to a fallen foe,
And wept when his friend McPherson died,
He shaped his army into a sword,
And cut the enemy's land in twain,
Yet gave the conquered their kindest word,
And erred, if ever, to spare them pain.
The office-heroes who fought for place,
Strove hard to fetter him with their pelf;
But he fought for his country and his race,
And not for jewels to crown himself.
In times of peace it was his to be
The foremost gentleman of the land;
Death has no power o'er such as he,
So reach for the brave old Sherman's hand!
Kind features, stern with a soldier-gaze:
A cliff of rock in a battle storm,
A garden of smiles in peaceful days.
He burned belligerent cities low,
He planted ruin on every side,
But offered love to a fallen foe,
And wept when his friend McPherson died,
He shaped his army into a sword,
And cut the enemy's land in twain,
Yet gave the conquered their kindest word,
And erred, if ever, to spare them pain.
The office-heroes who fought for place,
Strove hard to fetter him with their pelf;
But he fought for his country and his race,
And not for jewels to crown himself.
In times of peace it was his to be
The foremost gentleman of the land;
Death has no power o'er such as he,
So reach for the brave old Sherman's hand!
Another: a sturdy Irish heart,
That gave to this land its life-long aid;
The rush of the whirlwind sped his dart,
The flash of the lightning fired his blade.
He swore like a trooper, but what he swore
Was never known to fall or fail;
His oaths in The Book may be blotted o'er,
For he sinned that God's cause might prevail.
Once freedom's ranks were melting away;
He moulded panics to victory, then,
Rode down disaster and saved the day;—
He was good as a hundred thousand men!
His iron heart lies 'neath sods of green,
His shoulder-stars have been hung away;
But he rides on lofty roads unseen,
And Sheridan's soul is here to-day!
That gave to this land its life-long aid;
The rush of the whirlwind sped his dart,
The flash of the lightning fired his blade.
He swore like a trooper, but what he swore
Was never known to fall or fail;
His oaths in The Book may be blotted o'er,
For he sinned that God's cause might prevail.
Once freedom's ranks were melting away;
He moulded panics to victory, then,
Rode down disaster and saved the day;—
He was good as a hundred thousand men!
His iron heart lies 'neath sods of green,
His shoulder-stars have been hung away;
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And Sheridan's soul is here to-day!
Another: a tall and sinewy form,
A face marked deep with the lines of care;
A will of iron, but a heart as warm
As fiery breeze of the tropic air.
He was born a prince, but in hovels cast—
He made the cabin a palace, then;
He grew to be more than a king, at last;
For monarchs, you know, are not always men.
His fight for the crown was hard and grim,
But his march to the front was firm and true;
He fought for the stars, and the stars for him,
And God had miracles he must do.
At last he came to his lofty place,
But wild rebellion was knocking there;
Hot anger frowned at his honest face,
And desolation was in the air.
He swore that treason should be met
By every pain that could lay it low,
He rallied ruin against it; yet
His heart beat warm for every foe.
So on he toiled, till lo! in view
Swept sacred Emancipation's plan!
He did the deed he was sent to do;
For God was there, and God knew His man.
Guiding the nation in rocks and shoals,
He climbed the eternal mast of fame,
And, graced with the thanks of all true souls,
Wrote Liberator before his name.
His eyes flashed triumph, then swift grew dim—
A murderer tore that life apart;
But those he loved are still loving him,
And Lincoln is here in every heart!
A face marked deep with the lines of care;
A will of iron, but a heart as warm
As fiery breeze of the tropic air.
He was born a prince, but in hovels cast—
He made the cabin a palace, then;
He grew to be more than a king, at last;
For monarchs, you know, are not always men.
His fight for the crown was hard and grim,
But his march to the front was firm and true;
He fought for the stars, and the stars for him,
And God had miracles he must do.
At last he came to his lofty place,
But wild rebellion was knocking there;
Hot anger frowned at his honest face,
And desolation was in the air.
He swore that treason should be met
By every pain that could lay it low,
He rallied ruin against it; yet
His heart beat warm for every foe.
So on he toiled, till lo! in view
Swept sacred Emancipation's plan!
He did the deed he was sent to do;
For God was there, and God knew His man.
Guiding the nation in rocks and shoals,
He climbed the eternal mast of fame,
And, graced with the thanks of all true souls,
Wrote Liberator before his name.
His eyes flashed triumph, then swift grew dim—
A murderer tore that life apart;
But those he loved are still loving him,
And Lincoln is here in every heart!
But why should I call the muster-roll
Of those who are here in our hearts to-day?
They need no naming; each true, grand soul
Has heard your summons and marched this way.
Why call to Hancock, worthy all praise,
Superb in stature and mental might,
Who helped save Gettysburg's ominous days,
And left brave blood at that glorious fight?
Why call to Sedgwick—modest man—
Who longed but to do his duty well;
Who died in the battle's deadly van,
With no obeisance to shot or shell?
Why call McClellan, whose last life view
Traced over these hills its eager track,
Whose soldiers called him their comrade true,
And spoke of him ever as “Little Mac?”
The Kearneys, the Wadsworths, the Burnsides, the Meades,
Charge to the front of our memory; they
Endorse their commissions with noble deeds,
And star in this festal throng to-day.
A mighty and brilliant band is here,
That none with the eye of flesh may see;
They come from their graves both far and near,
Their bodies prisoned, their souls set free.
Year after year this unseen throng,
By death recruited, counts more and more;
And louder and louder the battle-song
Of heroes that camp on the unseen shore.
If they could speak to us all to-day,
These words with their greetings would be twined:
“Remember us with what love you may,
But care for our loved ones left behind.
You give us monuments grand and high,
You sing to our bravery o'er and o'er,
But let us know that we did not die
That those we cherished might suffer more!”
Of those who are here in our hearts to-day?
They need no naming; each true, grand soul
Has heard your summons and marched this way.
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Superb in stature and mental might,
Who helped save Gettysburg's ominous days,
And left brave blood at that glorious fight?
Why call to Sedgwick—modest man—
Who longed but to do his duty well;
Who died in the battle's deadly van,
With no obeisance to shot or shell?
Why call McClellan, whose last life view
Traced over these hills its eager track,
Whose soldiers called him their comrade true,
And spoke of him ever as “Little Mac?”
The Kearneys, the Wadsworths, the Burnsides, the Meades,
Charge to the front of our memory; they
Endorse their commissions with noble deeds,
And star in this festal throng to-day.
A mighty and brilliant band is here,
That none with the eye of flesh may see;
They come from their graves both far and near,
Their bodies prisoned, their souls set free.
Year after year this unseen throng,
By death recruited, counts more and more;
And louder and louder the battle-song
Of heroes that camp on the unseen shore.
If they could speak to us all to-day,
These words with their greetings would be twined:
“Remember us with what love you may,
But care for our loved ones left behind.
You give us monuments grand and high,
You sing to our bravery o'er and o'er,
But let us know that we did not die
That those we cherished might suffer more!”
And where are the thousands who bravely waged
A losing strife? Whose hearts were true,
Though false their cause? Whose souls engaged
Their all in the work they had to do?
The warrior cruelest in the fight,
Is tenderest to the fallen foe;
The hand that stabs with deadliest might,
Would stanch forever the crimson flow.
If all of the noblest Southern dead
Could march together into this place,
With Lee's tall form at the column's head,
And Stonewall Jackson's calm, kind face,
And each should bear the smile of a friend,
As many of those who live have done,
No man that is here, but would straight extend
The hand of friendship to every one.
The war is over; the strife has fled;
Love lingers the living ones between;
Let all of the brave Confederate dead
Be welcomed here as our guests unseen!
A losing strife? Whose hearts were true,
Though false their cause? Whose souls engaged
Their all in the work they had to do?
The warrior cruelest in the fight,
Is tenderest to the fallen foe;
29
Would stanch forever the crimson flow.
If all of the noblest Southern dead
Could march together into this place,
With Lee's tall form at the column's head,
And Stonewall Jackson's calm, kind face,
And each should bear the smile of a friend,
As many of those who live have done,
No man that is here, but would straight extend
The hand of friendship to every one.
The war is over; the strife has fled;
Love lingers the living ones between;
Let all of the brave Confederate dead
Be welcomed here as our guests unseen!
The smoke of our cannon has sailed away;
The clouds are gone and the sky is clear.
Heaven looks from eternal heights to-day,
And finds that the nation still is here.
The North and the South, the East and West,
The dead, the living, all agree
That this shall be the grandest—best—
Of all the nations that time can see;
Shall laugh at centuries as they sweep
In clouds and sunbeams above its head;
Shall all of our stars in safety keep,
Shall hold the hands of our patriot dead.
But how? By lying in sloth serene?
By letting the soldier-spirit cease,
While foreign king and foreign queen
Still marshal their troops in time of peace?
While hosts of the East march to and fro
With muskets flashing and bugles that ring,
Ready to grapple with any foe
With all that discipline's strength can bring?
While navies wander from sea to sea,
Ready to shell the resistless town,
Able, if conflict with them should be,
To storm our cities and crush them down?
Rally, O men of the Western land!
You hold this country by heaven's own right!
Strive hard and remember, hand in hand,
How best to struggle and how to fight!
God loves sweet peace; but when the laws
Of peace are broken by lawless ones,
I notice He loves to have His cause
Hedged round with the best of men and guns.
So let us learn in the time of peace
The many hardships war may mean,
And never upon our hearts shall cease
To glitter the smiles of our guests unseen!
The clouds are gone and the sky is clear.
Heaven looks from eternal heights to-day,
And finds that the nation still is here.
The North and the South, the East and West,
The dead, the living, all agree
That this shall be the grandest—best—
Of all the nations that time can see;
Shall laugh at centuries as they sweep
In clouds and sunbeams above its head;
Shall all of our stars in safety keep,
Shall hold the hands of our patriot dead.
But how? By lying in sloth serene?
By letting the soldier-spirit cease,
While foreign king and foreign queen
Still marshal their troops in time of peace?
While hosts of the East march to and fro
With muskets flashing and bugles that ring,
Ready to grapple with any foe
With all that discipline's strength can bring?
While navies wander from sea to sea,
Ready to shell the resistless town,
Able, if conflict with them should be,
To storm our cities and crush them down?
30
You hold this country by heaven's own right!
Strive hard and remember, hand in hand,
How best to struggle and how to fight!
God loves sweet peace; but when the laws
Of peace are broken by lawless ones,
I notice He loves to have His cause
Hedged round with the best of men and guns.
So let us learn in the time of peace
The many hardships war may mean,
And never upon our hearts shall cease
To glitter the smiles of our guests unseen!
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