For Decoration Day
by Rupert Hughes (1823-1911) |
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I
1861�1865
BUT do we truly mourn our soldier
dead,
Or understand at all their precious fame�
We
that were born too late to feel the flame
That leapt
from lowly hearths, and grew, dispread,
And, like a
pillar of fire, our armies led?
Or you that knew them�do
the long years tame
The memory-anguish? Are they more
than name?
Oh, let no stinted grief profane their bed!
Let tears bedew each wreath that decks the lawn
Of
every grave! and raise a solemn prayer
That their
battalioned souls be joined to fare
Dim roads, beyond
the trumpets of the dawn,
Yet perfumed, somehow, by our
flowers that heap
The peaceful barracks where their
bodies sleep.
II
1898�1899
AND now the
long, long lines of the Nation's graves
Grow longer; and
the venerate slopes reveal
The fresh spring turf gashed
thick with tombs to seal
Away another army of our
braves.
So hang black garlands from the architraves
Of all the capitols. The dying peal
Of bugles wails
their final Taps. So kneel
And give the dead the due
their virtue craves.
Thank God, the olden sinew still is
bred;
The milk of American mothers still is sweet;
The sword of Seventy-six is sharp and bright;
The Flag
still floats unblotted with defeat!
But ah the blood
that keeps its ripples red,
The starry lives that keep
its field alight;
The pangs of women and the tears
they've bled
The Lord enlarge our spirits till we
feel
The greatness of these spirits upward fled.
A
kind of genius it has been that fed
Them strength to be,
above all passions, leal.
They put aside the velvet for
the steel,
Left love, and hope, and ease at home; and
sped
To the wilderness of war and every dread.
Their
blood is mortar for our commonweal;
Their deeds its
decoration and its boast.
So mix with dirges, triumph;
smiles, with tears.
Make sorrow perfect with exultant
pride�
Our vanished armies have not truly died;
They
march to-day before the heavenly host;
And history's
veterans raise a storm of cheers,
As the Yankee
troops�with glory armed and shod�
In Grand Review swing
past the throne of God. |
By Rupert Hughes (1823-1911)
Listed December 30, 2012 |
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