MEMORIAL POEM.
[Dedicated to the G. A. R. and read at Huntington Hall.]
Oh, peaceful are the humble graves of fallen comrades far and near,
In sweet communion with the gift we gladly offer year by year
To those who knelt at Freedom’s shrine in all the beauteous bloom of youth,
And fell, a living sacrifice, upon the altar stone of truth.
Though many of our brave marines are resting in the boundless deep,
No band of brothers bending near, the stars eternal vigil keep;
If we can never kneel and say “A noble comrade lies below,”
Upon the honor roll of fame his record shall the brighter glow.
Where legions of the “great unknown” beneath the dainty lilies sleep,
Let little children softly come above the sacred dust to weep;
A solemn sweetness fills the hours when thus devoted to the dead
Who fearless faced the cannon’s mouth and for Columbia fought and bled.
Oh, how we love to gather here upon each thirtieth of May,
And dedicate our choicest thoughts to glorify the Soldiers’ Day;
Beyond the worth of worldly store, or empty plaudits of renown,
The broken shackles of the slave are jewels in the heavenly crown.
To follow Butler’s bold campaigns must every loyal heart inspire,
As when he woke the gallant Sixth to kindle treason’s funeral pyre,
While Ladd and Whitney doomed to fall that dismal day at Baltimore
Were eager with their dying breath to hail the stars and stripes once more.
* * * * *
Athwart the face of Memory’s page we watch the busy brush of Time
Indorsing each heroic deed with one decisive word—“Sublime!”
The voice of victory arose amid the ardor of the strife,
And the patriots—these before me, had preserved a nation’s life.
Consult the dreary prison pen—the wounded heroes side by side,
Who in the weary march of months were sadly wishing they had died;
And marvel not that some are bowed as with a heavy weight of years,
But give to them a gracious meed, of love and gratitude, and tears.
Behold the spires of Gettysburg, the waving wheat, the orchard fair,
How calm it was until the strength of hostile forces entered there,
And then the awful rush and roar of surging armies, day by day,
Of Sickles in the grim retreat, and Sedgwick as he stood at bay.