"Take him and welcome!" the surgeons said; So we took him; and brought him where And we watched the war with bated breath, - And didn't. Nay, more, in death's despite The crippled skeleton learned to write. 15 "Dear Mother," at first, of course; and then "Dear Captain," inquiring about the men. Captain's answer: "Of eighty-and-five, Giffen and I are left alive." 20 25 Word of gloom from the war, one day; A tear his first as he bade good-bye, - Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye. "I'll write, if spared!" There was news of the fight; But none of Giffen. He did not write. I sometimes fancy that, were I king Of the princely Knights of the Golden Ring, And the tender legend that trembles here, For "Little Giffen," of Tennessee. ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN REUNITED Written after the Yellow Fever epidemic of 1878 Purer than thy own white snow, Nobler than thy mountain's height; Deeper than the ocean's flow, O Northland! to thy sister land, Stronger than thy own proud might; Was late thy mercy's generous deed and grand. Nigh twice ten years the sword was sheathed: In mist of green o'er battle plain For nigh two decades Spring had breathed; From passive sward had never paled, Nor fields, where all were brave and some had failed Between the Northland, bride of snow, 10 15 20 5 10 15 20 When Summer, like a rose in bloom, Had blossomed from the bud of Spring, Upon the blushing lips could cling? And who believe its fragrant light Would e'er be freighted with the breath of blight? Yet o'er the Southland crept the spell, That e'en from out its brightness spread; Rachel-like, amid her dead. Her bravest, fairest, purest, best, The waiting grave would welcome as its guest. The Northland, strong in love, and great, Forgot the stormy days of strife; Forgot that souls with dreams of hate Or unforgiveness e'er were rife. Forgotten was each thought and hushed; Save she was generous and her foe was crushed. No hand might clasp, from land to land; Yea! there was one to bridge the tide; The North and South stood side by side: 25 "Thou gavest back my sons again," The Southland to the Northland cries; "For all my dead, on battle plain, Thou bidst my dying now uprise: I still my sobs, I cease my tears, For thou hast recompensed my anguished years." GEORGE HENRY BOKER DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER Close his eyes; his work is done! Hand of man or kiss of woman? In the clover or the snow! 10 What cares he? he cannot know: Lay him low! As man may, he fought his fight, Proved his truth by his endeavor; Let him sleep in solemn night, Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he cannot know: Fold him in his country's stars, Leave him to God's watching eye, Trust him to the hand that made him. Mortal love weeps idly by: God alone has power to aid him. Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he cannot know: FRANCIS MILES FINCH THE BLUE AND THE GRAY By the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Under the other, the Gray. These in the robings of glory, Under the willow, the Gray. |