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THE FESTIVAL OF MEMORY;
OR, CONVERSE WITH THE SLAIN.
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[Read at the National Cemetery on the Custis Farm, Arlington Heights, Va., Decoration Day, 1877.]
And lift their fingers up to freedom's sky,
Here where, by green-flagged hill and flowery glade,
Camps evermore the Nation's dead brigade,
And, though our stars upon the day are tossed,
White, gleaming head-stones tell of what they cost,
And Triumph's guns are decked with Sorrow's strain,
Let us hold converse with the Nation's slain.
I.
Strong men fast asleep,
With coverlets wrought of clay,
Do soft dreams o'er you creep,
Of friends who are here to-day?
Do you know, O men low lying
In the hard and chilly bed,
That we, the slowly dying,
Are giving a day to the dead?
Do you know that sighs for your deaths
Across our heart-strings play,
E'en from the last faint breaths
Of the sweet-lipped mouth of May?
When you fell, at Duty's call,
Your fame it glittered high,
As leaves of the sombre Fall
Grow brighter though they die.
Men of the silent bands,
Men of the half-told days,
Lift up your spectre hands,
And take our heart-bouquets.
With coverlets wrought of clay,
Do soft dreams o'er you creep,
Of friends who are here to-day?
Do you know, O men low lying
In the hard and chilly bed,
That we, the slowly dying,
Are giving a day to the dead?
Do you know that sighs for your deaths
Across our heart-strings play,
E'en from the last faint breaths
Of the sweet-lipped mouth of May?
When you fell, at Duty's call,
Your fame it glittered high,
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Grow brighter though they die.
Men of the silent bands,
Men of the half-told days,
Lift up your spectre hands,
And take our heart-bouquets.
[RESPONSE.]
Our heads droop on the world's broad breast;
Our work is done, and we have gone to rest.
These footsteps, lingering round our bed,
The sun that shines, the storm that sweeps o'erhead,
The summer hour, when naught sounds nigh
Save the low, drowsy humming of the fly,
Or the wind's moan when day is done,
All feed our sleep, and all to us are one.
Our work is done, and we have gone to rest.
These footsteps, lingering round our bed,
The sun that shines, the storm that sweeps o'erhead,
The summer hour, when naught sounds nigh
Save the low, drowsy humming of the fly,
Or the wind's moan when day is done,
All feed our sleep, and all to us are one.
When morning sows the sky with gold,
To blossom forth at noon a million-fold,
When, shaded from the setting sun,
The weary father clasps his little one,
While she whose chastened love ne'er dies
Leans on them with her patient mother-eyes,
When the brown frame of even-time
Is pictured deep with song and laughter's chime;
To blossom forth at noon a million-fold,
When, shaded from the setting sun,
The weary father clasps his little one,
While she whose chastened love ne'er dies
Leans on them with her patient mother-eyes,
When the brown frame of even-time
Is pictured deep with song and laughter's chime;
Of all these sweet and pure and blest,
Not one avails to call us from our rest.
Fought we for wealth? We own, to-day,
Death's tattered robes, and six good feet of clay.
For noisy Fame's bright coronets?
The world applauds us, but it soon forgets.
And yet, on royal robes we fall:
We fought for Love—and Love is king of all.
Not one avails to call us from our rest.
Fought we for wealth? We own, to-day,
Death's tattered robes, and six good feet of clay.
For noisy Fame's bright coronets?
The world applauds us, but it soon forgets.
And yet, on royal robes we fall:
We fought for Love—and Love is king of all.
II.
Women, whose rich graves deck
The work of Strife's red spade,
Shining wrecks of the wreck
This tempest of war has made,
You whose sweet pure love
Round every suffering twined,
Whose hearts, like the sky above,
Bent o'er all human kind,
Who walked through hospital streets,
'Twixt white abodes of pain,
Counting the last heart-beats
Of men who were slowly slain;
Whose thrilling voices ever
Such words of comfort bore,
That many a poor boy never
Such music had heard before;
Whose deeds were so sweet and gracious,
Wherever your light feet trod,
That every step seemed precious,
As if it were that of God;
Whose eyes so divinely beamed,
Whose touch was so tender and true,
That the dying soldier dreamed
Of the purest love he knew;
O martyrs of more than duty!
Sweet-hearted woman-braves!
Did you think, in this day's sad beauty,
That we could forget your graves?
Could you think, of these yearning hours,
None from your memory grew?
That we brought a garden of flowers,
And never a blossom for you?
Great is the brave commander,
With foemen round him slain,
But greater far, and grander,
Is she who can soothe a pain.
Not till selfish blindness
Has clouded every eye,
Not till mercy and kindness
Have flown back to the sky,
Not till a heart that is human
Within this world beats not,
Shall the kind deeds of a woman
Be ever by man forgot.
Heaven's best evangels,
Artists of mercy's arts,
Earth-types of the angels,
Take these flowers from our hearts.
The work of Strife's red spade,
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This tempest of war has made,
You whose sweet pure love
Round every suffering twined,
Whose hearts, like the sky above,
Bent o'er all human kind,
Who walked through hospital streets,
'Twixt white abodes of pain,
Counting the last heart-beats
Of men who were slowly slain;
Whose thrilling voices ever
Such words of comfort bore,
That many a poor boy never
Such music had heard before;
Whose deeds were so sweet and gracious,
Wherever your light feet trod,
That every step seemed precious,
As if it were that of God;
Whose eyes so divinely beamed,
Whose touch was so tender and true,
That the dying soldier dreamed
Of the purest love he knew;
O martyrs of more than duty!
Sweet-hearted woman-braves!
Did you think, in this day's sad beauty,
That we could forget your graves?
Could you think, of these yearning hours,
None from your memory grew?
That we brought a garden of flowers,
And never a blossom for you?
Great is the brave commander,
With foemen round him slain,
But greater far, and grander,
Is she who can soothe a pain.
Not till selfish blindness
Has clouded every eye,
Not till mercy and kindness
Have flown back to the sky,
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Within this world beats not,
Shall the kind deeds of a woman
Be ever by man forgot.
Heaven's best evangels,
Artists of mercy's arts,
Earth-types of the angels,
Take these flowers from our hearts.
[RESPONSE.]
Sound and deep our bodies sleep
'Neath a bright green covering,
Slender shades of tender blades
Over us are hovering.
'Neath a bright green covering,
Slender shades of tender blades
Over us are hovering.
Fragrant sheaves of floweret leaves
Sweetest odors fling to us,
Merry birds with music-words
Perch aloft and sing to us.
Sweetest odors fling to us,
Merry birds with music-words
Perch aloft and sing to us.
Butterflies, with wings of eyes,
Flash a kindly cheer to us,
Stalks of clover, like a lover,
Bend and whisper near to us.
Flash a kindly cheer to us,
Stalks of clover, like a lover,
Bend and whisper near to us.
And we bless, with thankfulness,
All the flowers you give to us,
And we greet, with feelings meet,
All the hours you live to us;
All the flowers you give to us,
And we greet, with feelings meet,
All the hours you live to us;
But while we, 'neath hill and lea,
Floral favors owe to you,
We above, with smiles of love,
Blooms of blessings throw to you.
Floral favors owe to you,
We above, with smiles of love,
Blooms of blessings throw to you.
Once we stood, in doubtful mood,
On a hill-top, listening—
Gazing where, supremely fair,
Heaven's domes were glistening:
On a hill-top, listening—
Gazing where, supremely fair,
Heaven's domes were glistening:
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Widowed wives, whose own good lives
Their great grief had cost to them;
Mothers who till death were true,
Maids whose loves were lost to them;
Their great grief had cost to them;
Mothers who till death were true,
Maids whose loves were lost to them;
They who strove, with deeds of love,
To keep back the dying ones,
Until they were drawn, one day,
'Mongst the heavenward flying ones;
To keep back the dying ones,
Until they were drawn, one day,
'Mongst the heavenward flying ones;
So we stood, in doubtful mood,
On a hill-top, listening,
Gazing where, supremely fair,
Heaven's domes were glistening;
On a hill-top, listening,
Gazing where, supremely fair,
Heaven's domes were glistening;
Wondering why there came not nigh
Some who all had dared for us,
Sad together wondering whether
Our sweet dead yet cared for us!
Some who all had dared for us,
Sad together wondering whether
Our sweet dead yet cared for us!
At a sound we turned around:
They had stolen near to us,
They whom we had yearned to see—
They who were so dear to us;
They had stolen near to us,
They whom we had yearned to see—
They who were so dear to us;
So, while you these heroes true
Praise, and with flowers cover them,
We above throw looks of love,
And caresses, over them.
Praise, and with flowers cover them,
We above throw looks of love,
And caresses, over them.
III.
Men who fell at a loss,
Who died 'neath failure's frown,
Who carried Strife's red cross,
And gained not Victory's crown,
Whose wrong fight was so brave
That it won our sad applause,
Who sleep in a hero's grave,
Though clutched by the corpse of a cause:
Sleep sweet! with no misgiving,
By bitter memories fed,
That we, your foes when living,
Can be your foes when dead.
Your fault shall not e'en be spoken;
You paid for it on the pall;
The shroud is Forgiveness' token,
And Death makes saints of all.
Your land has in its keeping
Our brothers, doomed to die:
Their souls went upward, sweeping
Through storms of a southern sky;
The dead sons of our mothers
Reach for your hands of clay;
So we, with your living brothers,
Would clasp glad hands to-day;
That this young Queen of Nations,
As famous as the sun,
Which has lived through tribulations
A hundred years and one,
Shall wrap the centuries round her
Again and yet again,
Till their gleaming braids have wound her
In a thousand years and ten!
Who died 'neath failure's frown,
Who carried Strife's red cross,
And gained not Victory's crown,
Whose wrong fight was so brave
That it won our sad applause,
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Though clutched by the corpse of a cause:
Sleep sweet! with no misgiving,
By bitter memories fed,
That we, your foes when living,
Can be your foes when dead.
Your fault shall not e'en be spoken;
You paid for it on the pall;
The shroud is Forgiveness' token,
And Death makes saints of all.
Your land has in its keeping
Our brothers, doomed to die:
Their souls went upward, sweeping
Through storms of a southern sky;
The dead sons of our mothers
Reach for your hands of clay;
So we, with your living brothers,
Would clasp glad hands to-day;
That this young Queen of Nations,
As famous as the sun,
Which has lived through tribulations
A hundred years and one,
Shall wrap the centuries round her
Again and yet again,
Till their gleaming braids have wound her
In a thousand years and ten!
[RESPONSE.]
From our dead foemen comes no chiding forth;We lie at peace; Heaven has no South or North.
With roots of tree and flower and fern and heather,
God reaches down, and clasps our hands together.
IV.
Men of the dark-hued race,
Whose freedom meant—to die—
Who lie, with pain-wrought face
Upturned to the peaceful sky,
Whose day of jubilee,
So many years o'erdue,
Came—but only to be
A day of death to you;
The flowers of whose love grew bright,
E'en in Oppression's track,
The mills of whose hearts ran right,
Though under a roof of black;
Crushed of a martyred race,
Jet-jewelry of your clan,
You showed with what good grace
A man may die for man.
To cringe and toil and bleed,
Your sires and you were born;
You grew in the ground of greed,
You throve in the frost of scorn!
But now, as your fireless ashes
Feed Liberty's fruitful tree,
The black race proudly flashes
The star-words “We are free!”
Men who died in sight
Of the long-sought promise-land,
Would that these flowers were bright
As your deeds are true and grand!
Whose freedom meant—to die—
Who lie, with pain-wrought face
Upturned to the peaceful sky,
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So many years o'erdue,
Came—but only to be
A day of death to you;
The flowers of whose love grew bright,
E'en in Oppression's track,
The mills of whose hearts ran right,
Though under a roof of black;
Crushed of a martyred race,
Jet-jewelry of your clan,
You showed with what good grace
A man may die for man.
To cringe and toil and bleed,
Your sires and you were born;
You grew in the ground of greed,
You throve in the frost of scorn!
But now, as your fireless ashes
Feed Liberty's fruitful tree,
The black race proudly flashes
The star-words “We are free!”
Men who died in sight
Of the long-sought promise-land,
Would that these flowers were bright
As your deeds are true and grand!
[RESPONSE.]
Oh! we had hearts, as brave and true
As those that lighter covering knew;
Love's flowers bloomed in us, pure and bright,
As if the vases were of white!
As those that lighter covering knew;
Love's flowers bloomed in us, pure and bright,
As if the vases were of white!
And we had homes, as sweet and rare
As if our household gods were fair;
But Death's was not the only dart
That came to force our joys apart!
As if our household gods were fair;
But Death's was not the only dart
That came to force our joys apart!
And we had souls, that saw the sky,
And heard the angels singing nigh;
But oft in gloom those souls would set,
As if God had not found them yet!
And heard the angels singing nigh;
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As if God had not found them yet!
Columbia brought us from afar—
She chained us to her triumph-car;
She drove us, fettered, through the street,
She lashed us, toiling at her feet!
She chained us to her triumph-car;
She drove us, fettered, through the street,
She lashed us, toiling at her feet!
We prayed to her, as prone we lay;
She turned her scornful face away!
She glanced at us, when sore afraid;
We rose, and hurried to her aid!
She turned her scornful face away!
She glanced at us, when sore afraid;
We rose, and hurried to her aid!
White faces sunk into the grave—
Black faces, too—and all were brave;
Their red blood thrilled Columbia's heart—
It could not tell the two apart.
Black faces, too—and all were brave;
Their red blood thrilled Columbia's heart—
It could not tell the two apart.
V.
Boys, whose glossy hair
Grows gray in the age of the grave,
Who lie so humble there,
Because you were strong and brave;
You, whose lives cold set
Like a Winter sun ill-timed,
Whose hearts ran down ere yet
The noon of your lives had chimed;
You, who in the sun
Of girlhood's smiles were basking,
Who left fresh hearts all won—
White hands to be had for asking;
You, whose bright true faces
Are dimmed with clouds of dust,
Who hide in the gloomy places,
And cringe in the teeth of rust;
Do you know your fathers are near,
The wrecks of their pride to meet?
Do you know your mothers are here,
To throw their hearts at your feet?
Do you know the maiden hovers
O'er you, with bended knee,
Dreaming what royal lovers
Such lovers as you would be?
Ruins of youthful graces,
Strong buds crushed in Spring,
Lift up your phantom faces,
And see the flowers we bring.
Grows gray in the age of the grave,
Who lie so humble there,
Because you were strong and brave;
You, whose lives cold set
Like a Winter sun ill-timed,
Whose hearts ran down ere yet
The noon of your lives had chimed;
You, who in the sun
Of girlhood's smiles were basking,
Who left fresh hearts all won—
White hands to be had for asking;
You, whose bright true faces
Are dimmed with clouds of dust,
Who hide in the gloomy places,
And cringe in the teeth of rust;
Do you know your fathers are near,
The wrecks of their pride to meet?
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To throw their hearts at your feet?
Do you know the maiden hovers
O'er you, with bended knee,
Dreaming what royal lovers
Such lovers as you would be?
Ruins of youthful graces,
Strong buds crushed in Spring,
Lift up your phantom faces,
And see the flowers we bring.
[RESPONSE.]
We struck our camp at break of day—we marched into the fight;
We laid the rose of pleasure down, and grasped the thorns of right.
We laid the rose of pleasure down, and grasped the thorns of right.
The drum's roll was joy to us; the fife was sweetly shrill;
The waving of our country's flag—it made our pulses thrill.
The waving of our country's flag—it made our pulses thrill.
They cheered us as we walked the streets; they marched us to and fro;
And they who staid spoke loud to us how brave it was to go.
And they who staid spoke loud to us how brave it was to go.
Our faces set with iron deeds that yet were to be done;
Our muskets clean and bright and new, and glistening in the sun;
Our muskets clean and bright and new, and glistening in the sun;
It was so like some tournament—some grander sort of play—
That time we bravely shouldered arms, and marched, marched away!
That time we bravely shouldered arms, and marched, marched away!
There came a sudden dash of tears from those who said good-bye—
We set our teeth together tight, and made them no reply.
We set our teeth together tight, and made them no reply.
There leaped a moisture to our eyes, but Pride was there, on guard,
And would not pass the aching tears that came so fierce and hard.
And would not pass the aching tears that came so fierce and hard.
'Twould never do to droop our heads so early in the fray!
So gallantly we shouldered arms, and marched, marched away.
So gallantly we shouldered arms, and marched, marched away.
But when the cold and cruel night about our tents did creep,
And Memory took the midnight watch, and Pride had gone to sleep,
And Memory took the midnight watch, and Pride had gone to sleep,
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When hard Endurance threw aside the mask that he had worn,
And all we had a day ago seemed ever from us torn,
And all we had a day ago seemed ever from us torn,
And when the boy within us had to perish for the man,
'Twas then the holiday was done—'twas then the fight began!
'Twas then the holiday was done—'twas then the fight began!
Full many arts of agony can Trouble's hand employ;
And none of them but she will use upon a home-sick boy!
And none of them but she will use upon a home-sick boy!
The old house came back to us; and every scene was there,
The bright and cheerful morning hour—the singing and the prayer;
The bright and cheerful morning hour—the singing and the prayer;
(Before us, every olden scene in perfect outline lay;
There never was a view so clear that seemed so far away!)
There never was a view so clear that seemed so far away!)
The neat and tidy noon-time—the evening banquet spread—
The smiles that flew from face to face—the pleasant words we said;
The smiles that flew from face to face—the pleasant words we said;
The evening ramble down the road—'twas then our fight began,
When first the boy within us had to perish for the man!
When first the boy within us had to perish for the man!
The morning broke; and ere the dark retreated from the sun,
Came shuddering through the fresh air a heavy signal-gun;
Came shuddering through the fresh air a heavy signal-gun;
And oh! it was a grand time when, through the battle's cry,
We went, to show, if needs must be, how bravely boys could die!
We went, to show, if needs must be, how bravely boys could die!
It seems so like some brilliant dream—that glory-painted day,
We turned our faces toward the fight, and marched, marched away!
We turned our faces toward the fight, and marched, marched away!
But when, the frantic battle done, we lay amid the slain,
Our blue coats trimmed with crimson blood—our bodies stabbed with pain—
Our blue coats trimmed with crimson blood—our bodies stabbed with pain—
When, with no friend to care for us, we stretched us out to die,
Without a shelter to our heads except the distant sky;
Without a shelter to our heads except the distant sky;
'Twas then the agony of war, in all its woe we knew;
We ordered up our hearts' reserves, and fought the battle through!
We ordered up our hearts' reserves, and fought the battle through!
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But soon, the hand of suffering its heavy weight upbore—
And sweet Relief came near to us, and opened Heaven's door;
And sweet Relief came near to us, and opened Heaven's door;
The spirit brave from every clime gave welcome to their band;
Old heroes smiled into our eyes, and grasped us by the hand!
Old heroes smiled into our eyes, and grasped us by the hand!
We were the honored guests of Heaven—the heroes of the day;
With laurel-wreaths upon our brows, we marched, marched away!
With laurel-wreaths upon our brows, we marched, marched away!
VI.
Sleep well, O sad-browed city!Whatever may betide,
Not under a nation's pity,
But 'mid a nation's pride.
The vines that round you clamber,
Brightest shall be, and best;
You sleep in the honor-chamber—
Each one a royal guest.
Columbia e'er will know you,
From out her glittering towers,
And kisses of love will throw you,
And send you wreaths of flowers;
And e'er in realms of glory
Shine bright your starry claims;
Angels have heard your story,
And God knows all your names.
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