And often when I gaze Into its folds and see these visions fair, Mine eyes are filled with haze Of tears for him that wore it, true and brave; Almost I turn to fling it on his grave Beside the little flag that flutters there!— Then sigh for power to close Within the amber clear of poetry This pale and withered rose That else must pass and crumble into dust And squander in some wild and windy gust The essence I would set in melody— The feelings of the time When first it bloomed; the deeds of sacrifice, The thoughts and acts sublime, The scenes of battle with their woe and scaith, The courtesy and courage, love and faith— That I can read within it with mine eyes!
THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.
By FRANCIS MILES FINCH.
[Suggested by the fact that the women of Columbus, Miss., on their decoration day strewed flowers, with impartial hands, upon the graves of northern and southern soldiers.—Editor.]
These in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat: All with the battle-blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Under the laurel, the Blue; Under the willow, the Gray.