 | Later Lays and Lyrics |  |
84
OUR LOYAL DEAD.
I.
Our martyred dead, our martyred dead!The land is billowed with their graves;
Sods were uptorn to make their bed
While rolled the battle's purple waves:
Few, near their shrouded fathers rest,
With funeral flowers their couches drest.
II.
Ah! thousands worn, and famine-paleDied captives of the cruel foe,
No mourner save the blast to wail
Where famished men were lying low;
While the hill-tops catch morning's flame
Their native North will guard their fame.
III.
Rust will consume the blades they drew,Moths eat the banner that the bore,
But deeds of men to Freedom true
In generous hearts live evermore;
Time drops his scythe, and Death flings by
His dart, when heroes nobly die.
IV.
Their mission ends not when the goalOf life through blood and toil they gain,
Although the muffled bells we toll
While slow move hearse and funeral train;
Crushed cages of the soul we bear,
But where the spirit? tell me where?
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V.
Inspiring hearts whose pulses keepTime to the battle-march of truth,
Waking the bondsman from his sleep,
And giving age a second youth:
Though echoless their footsteps fall
I see their shadows on the wall.
VI.
Along my nerves their whispers lowAwaken an electric thrill;
They come to share our joy and woe,
Are living, loving, breathing still;
By man's dim, clouded gaze unseen
The dead, to-night, with us convene.
VII.
Ye mourners! throw your weeds away,Let no wild requiem be sung;
The voices of the slain all day
Have in mine ear like harp-notes rung:
We number them with bright things fled,
But they exist whom we call dead.
VIII.
Spectators, listeners! they have heardThe words that from my tongue have rolled,
And, when my heart grew faint, have stirred
My bosom with the fires of old:
Although unseen by mortal sight
The dead move, in our midst, to-night.
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IX
Assure them, ere they cross againThe cold, dark stream that knows no tide,
Whose waves the realm where seraphs reign
From this dark land of storm divide,
A generous band will pay the debt
Of gratitude we owe them yet.
X.
Up with the monumental tower,Or rear the cenotaph on high,
In honor of our dead—the flower
Of Livingston's proud chivalry:
Kind ladies! men of generous mould,
Part with your jewels, rings and gold!
XI.
Crown with a shaft of marble pale,Or granite gray, yon upland swell
That overlooks a lovelier vale
Than Arno's, of which poets tell,
In honor of the brave who died
That Union's ark the wave might ride.
XII.
While by our household fires we sitRecall the lads who dared to die
When, crimson to each bridle-bit,
The steeds of havoc thundered by—
Died that this league of States might be
Soldered with blood eternally.
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XIII.
When we forget our loyal deadWho nobly fell for hearth and shrine,
Black be the pall o'er nature spread,
Our valley red with blood like wine:
Then let their funeral shaft uptower
A rallying place in danger's hour.
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