Still do the black-robed mothers come and go; Still do lone wives by dreary hearth-stones weep; Still does a Nation, in her pride and woe, For her dead sons a mournful vigil keep.
Ah, then, awhile delay! Remove ye not These drooping banners from their place on high; They make of each proud hall a hallowed spot, Where Truth must dwell and Freedom cannot die.
Now slowly waving in this tranquil air, What wondrous eloquence is in their speech! No prophet “silver tongued,” no poet rare, Even in dreams may hope such heights to reach.
They tell of Life that calmly looked on Death— Of peerless valor and of trust sublime— Of costly sacrifice, of holiest faith, Of lofty hopes that ended not with Time.
Oh! each worn fold is hallowed! set apart To minister unto us in our needs— To bear henceforth to many a fainting heart, The cordial wine of noble thoughts and deeds.
Then leave them yet awhile where, day by day, The lessons that they teach, your souls may learn; So shall ye work for righteousness alway, And for its faithful service ever yearn.
Now may God bless our land for evermore! And from all strife and turmoil grant surcease; While from the mountains to the farthest shore Accordant voices softly whisper—Peace!
MY MOCKING-BIRD
Mocking-bird! mocking-bird! swinging high Aloft in your gilded cage, The clouds are hurrying over the sky, The wild winds fiercely rage. But soft and warm is the air you breathe Up there with the tremulous ivy wreath, And never an icy blast can chill The perfumed silence sweet and still.
Mocking-bird! mocking-bird! from your throat Breaks forth no flood of song, Nor even one perfect golden note, Triumphant, glad, and strong! But now and then a pitiful wail, Like the plaintive sigh of the dying gale, Comes from that arching breast of thine Swinging up there with the ivy-vine.