VII
There moves along the street and lane
A motley crowd of old and young;
The nation’s anthem has been sung,
A homily preached at the fane.
It moves along to sound of fife
And muffled drum, the step to aid;
The flag is to the breezes laid,
A flag which bears the marks of strife.
These men who carried it on high,
Amid the battle’s great array,
But feebly follow it to-day
To where their fallen comrads lie.
“He must increase, but I decrease,”
Thus spake the prophet long ago,
“Old Glory” has been strengthened so,
“The boys in blue” may rest in peace.
And one by one is mustered out,
From ranks which ever thinner grow,
Soon but a remnant we shall know,
A remnant in the North and South.
So let us plant our flag and flow’r
Upon their grave, in Memory,—
Of what they were—what we should be,
In this the larger, newborn hour.
But most of all, let us be kind
To these who linger yet a while,
Come, walk with them the last long mile,
And carry those who fall behind!