When the glad spring, all flushed and beautiful,
First mocked us with her roses—
“With dirge and bell and minute gun we paid
Some few poor rites, an inexpressive token,
Of a great people’s pain, to Jackson’s shade,
In agony unspoken.
“No wailing trumpet and no tolling bell,
No cannon, save the battle’s boom receding,
When Stuart to the grave we bore, might tell,
With hearts all crushed and bleeding ...”