Furl that Banner, softly, slowly; Treat it gently—it is holy, For it droops above the dead; Touch it not—unfold it never; Let it droop there, furled forever,— For its people’s hopes are fled.
[Southern.]
SOMEBODY’S DARLING.
By MARIA LA CONTE.
Matted and damp are the curls of gold Kissing the snow of that fair young brow, Pale are the lips of delicate mould— Somebody’s darling is dying now. Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow Brush his wandering waves of gold; Cross his hands on his bosom now— Somebody’s darling is still and cold.
Kiss him once for somebody’s sake, Murmur a prayer soft and low; One bright curl from its fair mates take— They were somebody’s pride, you know. Somebody’s hand hath rested here— Was it a mother’s, soft and white? Or have the lips of a sister fair Been baptized in their waves of light?