Oscar C. McCulloch
INDIANAPOLIS, DECEMBER 12, 1891
WHAT would best please our friend, in token of
The sense of our great loss? — Our sighs and tears?
Nay, these he fought against through all his years,
Heroically voicing, high above
Grief's ceaseless minor, moaning like a dove,
The paean triumphant that the soldier hears,
Scaling the walls of death, midst shouts and cheers,
The old Flag laughing in his eyes' last love.
Nay, then, to pleasure him were it not meet
To yield him bravely, as his fate arrives? —
Drape him in radiant roses, head and feet,
And be partakers, while his work survives,
Of his fair fame, — paying the tribute sweet
To all humanity — our nobler lives.
WHAT would best please our friend, in token of
The sense of our great loss? — Our sighs and tears?
Nay, these he fought against through all his years,
Heroically voicing, high above
Grief's ceaseless minor, moaning like a dove,
The paean triumphant that the soldier hears,
Scaling the walls of death, midst shouts and cheers,
The old Flag laughing in his eyes' last love.
Nay, then, to pleasure him were it not meet
To yield him bravely, as his fate arrives? —
Drape him in radiant roses, head and feet,
And be partakers, while his work survives,
Of his fair fame, — paying the tribute sweet
To all humanity — our nobler lives.
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