Some Summer morn
Of splendors and of songs,
When roses hide the thorn
And smile — the spirit's wrongs —
Shall I die then?
Ah! me, no matter when;
I know I will rejoice
To leave the haunts of men
And lie beneath the sod,
To hear Thy tender voice
In Thy home, O my God!
Some Autumn eve,
When chill clouds drape the sky,
When bright things grieve
Because all fair things die —
Shall I die then?
Ah! me, no matter when,
I know I shall be glad,
Away from the homes of men,
Adown beneath the sod,
My heart will not be sad
In Thy home, O my God!
Some Wintry day,
When all skies wear a gloom,
And beauteous May
Sleeps in December's tomb,
Shall I die then?
Ah! me, no matter when;
My soul shall throb with joy
To leave the haunts of men
And sleep beneath the sod.
Ah! there is no alloy
In Thy joys, O my God!
Haste, death! be fleet;
I know it will be sweet
To rest beneath the sod,
To kneel and kiss Thy feet
In heaven, O my God!
The Conquered Banner
Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary;
Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary;
Furl it, fold it, it is best;
For there's not a man to wave it,
And there's not a sword to save it,
And there's not one left to lave it
In the blood which heroes gave it;
And its foes now scorn and brave it;
Furl it, hide it — let it rest!
Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered;
Broken is its staff and shattered;
And the valiant hosts are scattered
Over whom it floated high.
Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it;
Hard to think there's none to hold it;
Hard that those who once unrolled it
Now must furl it with a sigh.
Furl that Banner! furl it sadly!
Once ten thousands hailed it gladly,
And ten thousands wildly, madly,
Swore it should forever wave;
Swore that foeman's sword should never
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever,
Till that flag should float forever
O'er their freedom or their grave!
Furl it! for the hands that grasped it,
And the hearts that fondly clasped it,
Cold and dead are lying low;
And that Banner — it is trailing!
While around it sounds the wailing
Of its people in their woe.
For, though conquered, they adore it!
Love the cold, dead hands that bore it!
Weep for those who fell before it!
Pardon those who trailed and tore it!
But, oh! wildly they deplore it,
Now who furl and fold it so.