Who bore for us the heavy load— The cross our hands upon him laid; Who trod for us the toilsome road Meekly, yet undismayed!
And for that gift—although thy graves Lie thick beneath December’s snow, Though every hamlet mourns its braves, And bears its weight of woe—
We bless thee! Yet, O bounteous year, For more than Peace we thank thee now, As bending o’er thine honored bier, We crown thy pallid brow!
We bless thee, though we scarcely dare Give to our new-born joy a tongue; O mighty Year, upon the air Thy voice triumphant rung,
Even in death! and at the sound, From myriad limbs the fetters fell Into the dim and vast profound, While tolled thy passing bell!
Farewell, farewell, thou storied Year! Thou wondrous Year of joy and gloom! With grateful hearts we crown thee, ere We lay thee in thy tomb!
OUR FLAGS AT THE CAPITOL
Remove them not! Above our fallen braves Nature not yet her perfect work hath wrought; Scarce has the turf grown green upon their graves, The martyr graves for whose embrace they fought.
The wounds of our long conflict are not healed; Our land’s fair face is seamed with many a scar; And woeful sights, on many a battle-field, Show ghastly grim beneath the evening star.
Still does the sad Earth tremble with affright, Lest she the tread of armèd hosts should feel Once more upon her bosom. Still the Night Hears, in wild dreams, the cannon’s thundering peal.