O COMRADES , on each lonely grave we place one flower to-day,
More sweet than any that shall bloom upon the heart of May;
More flush in blue and crimson, with starry splendor crowned,
Because the thunders raged above, the darkness hemmed around;
The flower that our fathers saw, an hundred years before,
A tiny tendril springing by the lonely cabin door;
'Twas sown in fears, 'twas wet with tears, till, lo, it burst in view,
The symbol of a Nation's hopes — the Red, the White, the Blue.
Ah, not in anger, not in strife, we come with laden hands;
The crimson retinues of War are off in other lands;
We bring the blossoms we have nursed to shed their honeyed breath
Where erst the reeling ranks of wrath unbarred the gates of death;
We lift the dear dead faces of our heroes to the light,
We raise the pallid hands of theirs, we clasp and hold them tight;
We say: O brothers, rise and see the Peace you helped to woo,
Whose snowy pinions hover o'er the Red, the White, the Blue.
Not yours, O silent comrades, the ecstacy of strife,
The haughty exaltation that rounds the hero's life;
Not yours the flash of sabers, the shouts of the advance,
The gleam of thrusting bayonets that shiver as they glance;
Not yours upon the parapet your banner to unfurl,
To die with victory on your lips, as back your feet they hurl;
The whisper of a kindling hope, while gaily over you.
The silken folds are dancing out — the Red, the White, the Blue.
Nay, to your homesick vision the mask of Death was up,
His icy breath was round you, his draught was in the cup;
A terror walks at noonday; the dreams that throng the night
But take the wings of morning and vanish ere the light.
But oh, our fallen heroes, one gleam of heaven shines
Upon the ghastly phalanxes, along the ragged lines,
And eyes grown dim with watching are lit with courage new, —
They've heard the tramp of comrades, with the Red, the White, the Blue.
O comrades of the prison, ye have not died in vain,
For lo, the march of harvests where War has trod the plain!
And lo, the breath of lilies and of rose beyond compare,
And the sound of children chanting where the cannon rent the air!
We clasp our hands above you with tearful hearts to-day, —
Your brothers who have worn the blue, your brothers of the gray;
Our hearts are one forever, whatever men may do,
And over all the glory of the Red, the White, the Blue.
Ah, not in strife nor anger nor idle grief we come,
With thrill and throb of bugle, with clamor of the drum;
We've heard the wings of healing above the war's surcease,
And lo, the Great Commander has set the watchword, " Peace! "
Peace to the free-born millions who live to do and dare,
Peace in each brave endeavor, in whatever lot they share!
Above, the triune colors, so dear to me and you,
The splendid flower that Freedom guards — the Red, the White, the Blue.
More sweet than any that shall bloom upon the heart of May;
More flush in blue and crimson, with starry splendor crowned,
Because the thunders raged above, the darkness hemmed around;
The flower that our fathers saw, an hundred years before,
A tiny tendril springing by the lonely cabin door;
'Twas sown in fears, 'twas wet with tears, till, lo, it burst in view,
The symbol of a Nation's hopes — the Red, the White, the Blue.
Ah, not in anger, not in strife, we come with laden hands;
The crimson retinues of War are off in other lands;
We bring the blossoms we have nursed to shed their honeyed breath
Where erst the reeling ranks of wrath unbarred the gates of death;
We lift the dear dead faces of our heroes to the light,
We raise the pallid hands of theirs, we clasp and hold them tight;
We say: O brothers, rise and see the Peace you helped to woo,
Whose snowy pinions hover o'er the Red, the White, the Blue.
Not yours, O silent comrades, the ecstacy of strife,
The haughty exaltation that rounds the hero's life;
Not yours the flash of sabers, the shouts of the advance,
The gleam of thrusting bayonets that shiver as they glance;
Not yours upon the parapet your banner to unfurl,
To die with victory on your lips, as back your feet they hurl;
The whisper of a kindling hope, while gaily over you.
The silken folds are dancing out — the Red, the White, the Blue.
Nay, to your homesick vision the mask of Death was up,
His icy breath was round you, his draught was in the cup;
A terror walks at noonday; the dreams that throng the night
But take the wings of morning and vanish ere the light.
But oh, our fallen heroes, one gleam of heaven shines
Upon the ghastly phalanxes, along the ragged lines,
And eyes grown dim with watching are lit with courage new, —
They've heard the tramp of comrades, with the Red, the White, the Blue.
O comrades of the prison, ye have not died in vain,
For lo, the march of harvests where War has trod the plain!
And lo, the breath of lilies and of rose beyond compare,
And the sound of children chanting where the cannon rent the air!
We clasp our hands above you with tearful hearts to-day, —
Your brothers who have worn the blue, your brothers of the gray;
Our hearts are one forever, whatever men may do,
And over all the glory of the Red, the White, the Blue.
Ah, not in strife nor anger nor idle grief we come,
With thrill and throb of bugle, with clamor of the drum;
We've heard the wings of healing above the war's surcease,
And lo, the Great Commander has set the watchword, " Peace! "
Peace to the free-born millions who live to do and dare,
Peace in each brave endeavor, in whatever lot they share!
Above, the triune colors, so dear to me and you,
The splendid flower that Freedom guards — the Red, the White, the Blue.