War has played the game of battles on the bloody field of Mars,
With Fate behind the masque of hope, for clashing Gray and Blue;
And beside its broken altars, one has furled its stars and bars,—
The whitest flower of chivalry that heraldry e'er knew.
And the knighthood of the Southland kept the memory of its Cross,
Above the bitter lees of life the darkened years have quaffed;
For its spirit lives, invincible, beyond its woe and loss,—
Its wassail bowl was valor, and immortal truth the draught!
How they charged! the whole world wondered at the thrilling battle stroke,
In life's grandest panorama, like Crusaders they had come,—
But knightlier far than legend e'er in song or story woke,
For their Cross was love and honor and their Holy Grail was Home!
What marvel, then, that nations heard and gave of their applause,
Before the clash of right with might, of principle with gold,—
That cradle and the grave were robbed to swell the living cause,
That left upon the sodden field the grandest record told!
Fate won; and knew not Mercy in that awful molten blare,
When the Southrons turned in sorrow from the smoking cannon's mouth.
But the arms of love were round them, and above a grim despair
Rose the voices of their vestals,—faithful women of the South!
Theirs were the hands that tied the sash and girt the blade so bright,—
Theirs were the hearts that fared them forth,—the bravest of the brave!—
Theirs were the feet that trod the loom from morn till weary night,
And theirs the love that knelt in faith beside a warrior's grave!
Far out upon the wrecks of love their cradle-songs were cast,—
The songs of nursing mothers, as they wept the bloodstained shields;
And hymned unto the boom of guns, the rattling of the blast,
Their days of youth lie buried on forgotten battle-fields;
But they builded in the twilight of their hopes, and of their fears,
Love's memorial unto valor, that shall stand while time shall bide,
Blent of springtime's crimson roses and the purity of tears—
The Southron's glory-chaplet, for the victor's shaft, denied.
And the wide world heard no murmur from the keepers of the shrine,—
In the birth-throe of a nation nor the death-pang that it brought,—
In the tending of the cypress that a faithful few will twine,
When fate tramples down the laurels that a dauntless people sought.
Give the laurel to the victor,—give the song unto the slain!—
Give the Iron Cross of Honor, ere death lays the Southron down!—
But give to these, soul proven, tried by fire and by pain,
A memory of their mother-love, that pressed an iron crown!
With Fate behind the masque of hope, for clashing Gray and Blue;
And beside its broken altars, one has furled its stars and bars,—
The whitest flower of chivalry that heraldry e'er knew.
And the knighthood of the Southland kept the memory of its Cross,
Above the bitter lees of life the darkened years have quaffed;
For its spirit lives, invincible, beyond its woe and loss,—
Its wassail bowl was valor, and immortal truth the draught!
How they charged! the whole world wondered at the thrilling battle stroke,
In life's grandest panorama, like Crusaders they had come,—
But knightlier far than legend e'er in song or story woke,
For their Cross was love and honor and their Holy Grail was Home!
What marvel, then, that nations heard and gave of their applause,
Before the clash of right with might, of principle with gold,—
That cradle and the grave were robbed to swell the living cause,
That left upon the sodden field the grandest record told!
Fate won; and knew not Mercy in that awful molten blare,
When the Southrons turned in sorrow from the smoking cannon's mouth.
But the arms of love were round them, and above a grim despair
Rose the voices of their vestals,—faithful women of the South!
Theirs were the hands that tied the sash and girt the blade so bright,—
Theirs were the hearts that fared them forth,—the bravest of the brave!—
Theirs were the feet that trod the loom from morn till weary night,
And theirs the love that knelt in faith beside a warrior's grave!
Far out upon the wrecks of love their cradle-songs were cast,—
The songs of nursing mothers, as they wept the bloodstained shields;
And hymned unto the boom of guns, the rattling of the blast,
Their days of youth lie buried on forgotten battle-fields;
But they builded in the twilight of their hopes, and of their fears,
Love's memorial unto valor, that shall stand while time shall bide,
Blent of springtime's crimson roses and the purity of tears—
The Southron's glory-chaplet, for the victor's shaft, denied.
And the wide world heard no murmur from the keepers of the shrine,—
In the birth-throe of a nation nor the death-pang that it brought,—
In the tending of the cypress that a faithful few will twine,
When fate tramples down the laurels that a dauntless people sought.
Give the laurel to the victor,—give the song unto the slain!—
Give the Iron Cross of Honor, ere death lays the Southron down!—
But give to these, soul proven, tried by fire and by pain,
A memory of their mother-love, that pressed an iron crown!