Classic Poem

Spring, with her banners gold and green,
With her splendid suns and her stars serene,
Smiles in the peace that comes after the fray;
And under the arch of the April skies
The starry flag of the Union flies
Comrades! over your breasts to-day.
Forward! March! to the roll of the drum
The loyal sons of the Southland come!

Not to the battle! — the cannon's roar
Is heard in the forests and fields no more;
The sweetest roses in all the South,
Blossoming up from the stainless sod,
With incense sweet as they smile to God,
Have sealed with silence its iron mouth.
Your guns are stacked and your swords are sheathed,
And your brows with the laurels of Peace are wreathed.

It is after the battle; what sounds are here?
The songs of birds on the scented air;
The murmurous sigh of the inland gales;
The voice of the rivers that dashing free,
Move in melody out to sea
By murmurous meadows and violet vales;
Where once, in the strife and the passion and pain,
Rose the shout of the victor, the cry of the slain.

It is after the battle; the fight is done;
The victory lost and the victory won!
And ye, who fared to the fight and shed
Your blood on the battle fields, come to-day —
Thinned brigades from the far-away,
To the silent hillocks that hide your dead!
Halt! there are heroes that slumber here,
And ye are such for the wounds ye bear!

Beat, ye drums, with no muffled sound!
Let the bugles echo the camps around!
And still three cheers for the boys in gray!
For whether they lived, or whether they died,
The South by their valor is glorified
And rich in her record of love to-day!
Sons of the South! there's a victory sweet
That comes to the brave in the ranks of defeat!

Here are they lying, the ones that shed
Their blood for the South till her vales ran red,
And her rivers blushed with the crimson tide!
Honor them! Over their graves the years
Have scattered their roses and showered their tears
And Southern women have knelt and sighed.
Honor them! Honor was theirs, and fame
Enshrines in glory each deathless name.

The flag that they bore to the fight is furled,
Hidden away from the new-made world,
And trailed in the dust are its crimson bars;
The beautiful flag! and they loved it so,
But that is now in the long-ago,
When the heavens were beaming with hopeful stars;
Yet rare is the garland that o'er them waves —
Whose crimson shadow falls on their graves.

And Peace, like a beautiful angel, broods
O'er the fertile fields and the solitudes
Of a land made bright by the smile of God;
And — dearest blessing of all — to-day,
The foes who fought in the far-away,
Are re-united on this dear sod,
Which blossoms over the slain of war —
Friends! was it love we were fighting for?

Oh, love is ours. Though the fight was sore,
It is ended now — we are friends once more!
Once more — thank God! — we can proudly stand,
And looking back on the bloody past,
Say: " It is over at last — at last! "
With heart to heart and with hand to hand,
Over — and here, in the sight of heaven,
We do forgive, as we are forgiven.

And thus forgiven, brave hearts and true,
The boys in gray and the boys in blue —
Your higher mission at last is done,
And though o'er the graves of our dead we weep,
We can trust them all to the tender keep
Of the God who guides us and makes us one!
One in the union which shall not cease
Till the flags are furled in the Port of Peace.