 | Farm legends |  |
Decoration-Day Poems.
87
COVER THEM OVER.
Cover them over with beautiful flowers;
Deck them with garlands, those brothers of ours;
Lying so silent, by night and by day,
Sleeping the years of their manhood away:
Years they had marked for the joys of the brave;
Years they must waste in the sloth of the grave.
All the bright laurels that promised to bloom
Fell to the earth when they went to the tomb.
Give them the meed they have won in the past;
Give them the honors their merits forecast;
Give them the chaplets they won in the strife;
Give them the laurels they lost with their life.
Cover them over—yes, cover them over—
Parent, and husband, and brother, and lover:
Crown in your heart these dead heroes of ours,
And cover them over with beautiful flowers!
Deck them with garlands, those brothers of ours;
Lying so silent, by night and by day,
Sleeping the years of their manhood away:
Years they had marked for the joys of the brave;
Years they must waste in the sloth of the grave.
All the bright laurels that promised to bloom
Fell to the earth when they went to the tomb.
Give them the meed they have won in the past;
Give them the honors their merits forecast;
Give them the chaplets they won in the strife;
Give them the laurels they lost with their life.
Cover them over—yes, cover them over—
Parent, and husband, and brother, and lover:
Crown in your heart these dead heroes of ours,
And cover them over with beautiful flowers!
Cover the faces that motionless lie,
Shut from the blue of the glorious sky:
Faces once lighted with smiles of the gay—
Faces now marred by the frown of decay.
Eyes that beamed friendship and love to your own;
Lips that sweet thoughts of affection made known;
Brows you have soothed in the day of distress;
Cheeks you have flushed by the tender caress.
Faces that brightened at War's stirring cry;
Faces that streamed when they bade you good-by;
Faces that glowed in the battle's red flame,
Paling for naught, till the Death Angel came.
Cover them over—yes, cover them over—
Parent, and husband, and brother, and lover:
Kiss in your hearts these dead heroes of ours,
And cover them over with beautiful flowers!
Shut from the blue of the glorious sky:
Faces once lighted with smiles of the gay—
Faces now marred by the frown of decay.
Eyes that beamed friendship and love to your own;
Lips that sweet thoughts of affection made known;
Brows you have soothed in the day of distress;
Cheeks you have flushed by the tender caress.
Faces that brightened at War's stirring cry;
Faces that streamed when they bade you good-by;
Faces that glowed in the battle's red flame,
Paling for naught, till the Death Angel came.
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Parent, and husband, and brother, and lover:
Kiss in your hearts these dead heroes of ours,
And cover them over with beautiful flowers!
Cover the hands that are resting, half-tried,
Crossed on the bosom, or low by the side:
Hands to you, mother, in infancy thrown;
Hands that you, father, close hid in your own;
Hands where you, sister, when tried and dismayed.
Hung for protection and counsel and aid;
Hands that you, brother, for faithfulness knew;
Hands that you, wife, wrung in bitter adieu.
Bravely the cross of their country they bore;
Words of devotion they wrote with their gore;
Grandly they grasped for a garland of light,
Catching the mantle of death-darkened night.
Cover them over—yes, cover them over—
Parent, and husband, and brother, and lover:
Clasp in your hearts these dead heroes of ours,
And cover them over with beautiful flowers!
Crossed on the bosom, or low by the side:
Hands to you, mother, in infancy thrown;
Hands that you, father, close hid in your own;
Hands where you, sister, when tried and dismayed.
Hung for protection and counsel and aid;
Hands that you, brother, for faithfulness knew;
Hands that you, wife, wrung in bitter adieu.
Bravely the cross of their country they bore;
Words of devotion they wrote with their gore;
Grandly they grasped for a garland of light,
Catching the mantle of death-darkened night.
Cover them over—yes, cover them over—
Parent, and husband, and brother, and lover:
Clasp in your hearts these dead heroes of ours,
And cover them over with beautiful flowers!
Cover the feet that, all weary and torn,
Hither by comrades were tenderly borne:
Feet that have trodden, through love-lighted ways,
Near to your own, in the old happy days;
Feet that have pressed, in Life's opening morn,
Roses of pleasure, and Death's poisoned thorn.
Swiftly they rushed to the help of the right,
Firmly they stood in the shock of the fight.
Ne'er shall the enemy's hurrying tramp
Summon them forth from their death-guarded camp;
Ne'er, till Eternity's bugle shall sound,
Will they come out from their couch in the ground.
Cover them over—yes, cover them over—
Parent, and husband, and brother, and lover:
Rough were the paths of those heroes of ours—
Now cover them over with beautiful flowers!
Hither by comrades were tenderly borne:
Feet that have trodden, through love-lighted ways,
Near to your own, in the old happy days;
Feet that have pressed, in Life's opening morn,
Roses of pleasure, and Death's poisoned thorn.
Swiftly they rushed to the help of the right,
Firmly they stood in the shock of the fight.
Ne'er shall the enemy's hurrying tramp
Summon them forth from their death-guarded camp;
Ne'er, till Eternity's bugle shall sound,
Will they come out from their couch in the ground.
Cover them over—yes, cover them over—
Parent, and husband, and brother, and lover:
Rough were the paths of those heroes of ours—
Now cover them over with beautiful flowers!
89
Cover the hearts that have beaten so high,
Beaten with hopes that were born but to die;
Hearts that have burned in the heat of the fray,
Hearts that have yearned for the homes far away;
Hearts that beat high in the charge's loud tramp,
Hearts that low fell in the prison's foul damp.
Once they were swelling with courage and will,
Now they are lying all pulseless and still;
Once they were glowing with friendship and love,
Now the great souls have gone soaring above.
Bravely their blood to the nation they gave,
Then in her bosom they found them a grave.
Cover them over—yes, cover them over—
Parent, and husband, and brother, and lover:
Press to your hearts these dead heroes of ours,
And cover them over with beautiful flowers!
Beaten with hopes that were born but to die;
Hearts that have burned in the heat of the fray,
Hearts that have yearned for the homes far away;
Hearts that beat high in the charge's loud tramp,
Hearts that low fell in the prison's foul damp.
Once they were swelling with courage and will,
Now they are lying all pulseless and still;
Once they were glowing with friendship and love,
Now the great souls have gone soaring above.
Bravely their blood to the nation they gave,
Then in her bosom they found them a grave.
Cover them over—yes, cover them over—
Parent, and husband, and brother, and lover:
Press to your hearts these dead heroes of ours,
And cover them over with beautiful flowers!
One there is, sleeping in yonder low tomb,
Worthy the brightest of flow'rets that bloom.
Weakness of womanhood's life was her part;
Tenderly strong was her generous heart.
Bravely she stood by the sufferer's side,
Checking the pain and the life-bearing tide;
Fighting the swift-sweeping phantom of Death,
Easing the dying man's fluttering breath;
Then, when the strife that had nerved her was o'er,
Calmly she went to where wars are no more.
Voices have blessed her now silent and dumb;
Voices will bless her in long years to come.
Cover her over—yes, cover her over—
Blessings, like angels, around her shall hover;
Cherish the name of that sister of ours,
And cover her over with beautiful flowers!
Worthy the brightest of flow'rets that bloom.
Weakness of womanhood's life was her part;
Tenderly strong was her generous heart.
Bravely she stood by the sufferer's side,
Checking the pain and the life-bearing tide;
Fighting the swift-sweeping phantom of Death,
Easing the dying man's fluttering breath;
Then, when the strife that had nerved her was o'er,
Calmly she went to where wars are no more.
Voices have blessed her now silent and dumb;
Voices will bless her in long years to come.
Cover her over—yes, cover her over—
Blessings, like angels, around her shall hover;
Cherish the name of that sister of ours,
And cover her over with beautiful flowers!
Cover the thousands who sleep far away—
Sleep where their friends can not find them to-day;
They who in mountain and hill-side and dell
Rest where they wearied, and lie where they fell.
Softly the grass-blade creeps round their repose;
Sweetly above them the wild flow'ret blows;
Zephyrs of freedom fly gently o'erhead,
Whispering names for the patriot dead.
So in our minds we will name them once more,
So in our hearts we will cover them o'er;
Roses and lilies and violets blue.
Bloom in our souls for the brave and the true.
Cover them over—yes, cover them over—
Parent, and husband, and brother, and lover:
Think of those far-away heroes of ours,
And cover them over with beautiful flowers!
Sleep where their friends can not find them to-day;
They who in mountain and hill-side and dell
Rest where they wearied, and lie where they fell.
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Sweetly above them the wild flow'ret blows;
Zephyrs of freedom fly gently o'erhead,
Whispering names for the patriot dead.
So in our minds we will name them once more,
So in our hearts we will cover them o'er;
Roses and lilies and violets blue.
Bloom in our souls for the brave and the true.
Cover them over—yes, cover them over—
Parent, and husband, and brother, and lover:
91
And cover them over with beautiful flowers!
When the long years have crept slowly away,
E'en to the dawn of Earth's funeral day;
When, at the Archangel's trumpet and tread,
Rise up the faces and forms of the dead;
When the great world its last judgment awaits;
When the blue sky shall swing open its gates,
And our long columns march silently through,
Past the Great Captain, for final review;
Then for the blood that has flown for the right,
Crowns shall be given, untarnished and bright;
Then the glad ear of each war-martyred son
Proudly shall hear the good judgment, “Well done”
Blessings for garlands shall cover them over—
Parent, and husband, and brother, and lover:
God will reward those dead heroes of ours,
And cover them over with beautiful flowers!
E'en to the dawn of Earth's funeral day;
When, at the Archangel's trumpet and tread,
Rise up the faces and forms of the dead;
When the great world its last judgment awaits;
When the blue sky shall swing open its gates,
And our long columns march silently through,
Past the Great Captain, for final review;
Then for the blood that has flown for the right,
Crowns shall be given, untarnished and bright;
Then the glad ear of each war-martyred son
Proudly shall hear the good judgment, “Well done”
Blessings for garlands shall cover them over—
Parent, and husband, and brother, and lover:
God will reward those dead heroes of ours,
And cover them over with beautiful flowers!
92
THE LOVES OF THE NATIONS.
I.
The Grecians loved their soldier dead:They prized the casket, though the pearl had fled.
When he who could be dangerous in the fight,
Had proved his soul's magnificence and might,
But—his poor body vanquished—with a sigh
Had laid him down upon the sands to die,
He vaulted 'mongst the nation's honored sons;
He was the love of all the living ones.
They rallied round a chief when fallen low,
To guard his numb flesh from a hostile blow.
“Rescue the dead!” was then the clarion cry;
“Rescue the dead, for we ourselves must die!”
So, oft they made, before the strife was done,
A dozen corpses more, to rescue one.
When that great agony of muscle, brain,
Heart, soul, tumultuous joy, and frantic pain,
Men call a battle, had been lost and won,
And it was told what side the gods were on,
And o'er the brows of which exhausted band
Proud Victory should press her jewelled hand,
Then from the conquered to the conquering came
A voice that made its way like tongues of flame,
And swift and chivalrous compliance bred:
“Give us a truce, that we may bury our dead!”
Six Grecian generals came from war one day,
All well esteemed, for gallant men were they;
But some one, pointing grimly at them, said,
“They on the field unburied left their dead.”
95
And curled about them, and licked up their blood.
Why did each one fall with dissevered head?
Because the Grecians loved their soldier dead!
A man came running from Thermopylæ,
And said, “'Tis done; they all were slain but me.”
Why did his fellow-Spartans sneer and hiss,
Recoil from him, as from a leper's kiss,
And say, “Take back your blood, you craven drone,
And leave it where your comrades lost their own?”
It was because the unhappy man had sped
Away from death, and left his comrades dead.
The Grecian mother, with a tearless eye,
Sent her son warward, with this mandate high:
“Now be this shield your glory or your hearse!
With it you earn my blessing or my curse!
Rather your ashes flecked with sparks of fame,
Than your live body clad in robes of shame!”
Oh yes, the Grecians loved their soldier dead!
Whether beneath the grass-blade's dainty tread,
Or 'mid the funeral pyre's majestic blaze,
They glowed within the living's envied gaze!
Yet not like ours that Grecian love could be:
They did not love the living as do we!
II.
The Romans loved their soldier dead,And brightest, grandest honors o'er them spread.
That hard, grim nation, which with fierce iron hand
Clasped by the choking throat land after land,
And blood of its own living freely shed,
Grew strangely tender with its warrior dead.
The past was dragged for deeds of might and fame,
To hang in garlands on the golden name;
The magic silver of some gifted tongue
Chaplets of praise above his body flung;
And words fell on the living, listening ear,
The dead might well awaken but to hear.
96
Before him waved—he found them at his tomb;
Sweet flowers, the freshest beauties of a day,
Made a fair garden round the hero's clay;
Great monuments wrote solemnly on high
His glory o'er the blue page of the sky;
And epitaphs, beneath the sparkling name,
Gave to the voiceless dead a tongue of flame.
Who fell with patriotic bravery, knew,
Humble or proud, his deeds would have their due;
Whoe'er with baseness threw his name away,
Knew that, when fall'n, he formed the vulture's prey.
Oh yes, the Romans loved their valiant dead,
The while their living were to victory led!
Swift-sighted Rome! you knew the intense desire
Of men to live when lesser men expire;
Knew how they struggle, e'en with latest breath,
To make their names o'erbridge the gulf of death;
Knew the last rites to one dead hero paid
Would sharpen many a living warrior's blade;
Knew how your victory-accustomed bands
Were waved along by their dead comrades' hands!
Yet not like ours that Roman love could be:
They did not love the living as do we!
III.
And does Columbia love her dead?—No word of praise or honor can be said,
No language has been given to our race,
No monument has majesty or grace,
No music, filling with weird sweets the air,
No maid or matron eloquently fair,
Naught that can feeling to expression wed,
May say how well we love our soldier dead.
If in those days when self was all above,
Men loved so well ere they were taught to love,
What deep affection may be felt and seen
From hearts taught by the love-crowned Nazarene!
99
The broad Potomac laves our chieftain's home;
The cascades of the Grecians murmur still,
Niagara thunders o'er the Western hill.
So seems it, in this era of heart-lore,
As if our love transcended all before.
In this republic—Giant of Free Lands,
Holding apart the oceans with strong hands—
Has through these years in massive quiet flown
A tide of tender heart-love for its own.
When swirling floods rush through the meadows fair,
And turn them into valleys of despair,
A flood of love sweeps o'er the prosperous hills,
And brings them aid to cure their sudden ills.
When the red fire-king holds his crimson court,
And ruins homes to sate his fiendish sport,
There speeds a flame of pity through the land,
Which opens wide the generous heart and hand.
Love for the worthy living, our hearts' guide;
Love for the worthy dead, his dark-veiled bride.
Love for the living martyrs of the land,
And garlands for the dead, go hand in hand.
So, while we deck the brave ones that are gone,
Our hearts for those who live, beat truly on.
When a man throws the treasures of his life
Into the Land's fierce, self-preserving strife,
Let him be sure, in the world's battles grim,
When war is o'er, the Land will fight for him!
So shall God's blessing mingle with these flowers,
And love of dead and living both be ours;
And benedictions on our hearts be shed;
For they are living, whom we mourn as dead!
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