For, though conquered, they adore it—
Love the cold, dead hands that bore it!
Weep for those who fell before it!
Pardon those who trailed and tore it!
But, oh, wildly they deplore it,
Now who furl and fold it so!
Furl that Banner! True, 'tis gory,
Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory,
And 'twill live in song and story
Though its folds are in the dust!
For its fame on brightest pages,
Penned by poets and by sages,
Shall go sounding down the ages—
Furl its folds though now we must!
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.
Abram J. Ryan.
At the North, too, Peace was welcome. The North, while suffering less poignantly than the South, had drunk deeply of the bitter cup. It had lost over three hundred and fifty thousand men.
PEACE
Daybreak upon the hills!
Slowly, behind the midnight murk and trail
Of the long storm, light brightens, pure and pale,
And the horizon fills.
Not bearing swift release,—
Not with quick feet of triumph, but with tread
August and solemn, following her dead,
Cometh, at last, our Peace.
Over thick graves grown green,
Over pale bones that graveless lie and bleach,
Over torn human hearts her path doth reach,
And Heaven's dear pity lean.
O angel sweet and grand!
White-footed, from beside the throne of God,
Thou movest, with the palm and olive-rod,
And day bespreads the land!