Furl that Banner! True, 'tis gory,
Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory,
And 'twill live in song and story,
Though its folds are in the dust:
For its fame on brightest pages,
Penned by poets and by sages,
Shall go sounding down the ages —
Furl its folds though now we must.
Furl that Banner, softly, slowly!
Treat it gently — it is holy —
For it droops above the dead.
Touch it not — unfold it never,
Let it droop there, furled forever,
For its people's hopes are dead!
A Christmas Chant
They ask me to sing them a Christmas song
That with musical mirth shall ring;
How know I that the world's great throng
Will care for the words I sing?
Let the young and the gay chant the Christmas lay,
Their voices and hearts are glad;
But I — I am old, and my locks are gray,
And they tell me my voice is sad.
Ah! once I could sing, when my heart beat warm
With hopes, bright as life's first spring;
But the spring hath fled, and the golden charm
Hath gone from the songs I sing.
I have lost the spell that my verse could weave
O'er the souls of the old and young,
And never again — how it makes me grieve —
Shall I sing as once I sung.
Why ask a song? ah! perchance you believe,
Since my days are so nearly past,
That the song you'll hear on this Christmas eve
Is the old man's best and last.
Do you want the jingle of rhythm and rhyme?
Art's sweet but meaningless notes?
Or the music of thought, that, like the chime
Of a grand cathedral, floats
Out of each word, and along each line,
Into the spirit's ear,
Lifting it up and making it pine
For a something far from here;