LITTLE GIFFEN OUT of the focal and foremost fire, "Take him and welcome!" the surgeon said; And we watched the war with bated breath- And didn't. Nay, more! in death's despite Word of gloom from the war, one day: A tear-his first—as he bade good-by, 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, For Little Giffen of Tennessee. Francis Orray Ticknor [1822-1874] ODE Sung on the occasion of decorating the graves of the Confederate dead, at Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S. C., 1867. SLEEP Sweetly in your humble graves, In seeds of laurel in the earth The blossom of your fame is blown, Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years Which keep in trust your storied tombs, Small tributes! but your shades will smile Stoop, angels, hither from the skies! Henry Timrod [1829-1867] SENTINEL SONGS WHEN falls the soldier brave, The poet sings and guards his grave Songs, march! he gives command, Keep faithful watch and true; The living and dead of the Conquered Land Have now no guards save you. Gray Ballads! mark ye well! Thrice holy is your trust! Go! halt by the fields where warriors fell; Rest arms! and guard their dust. List! Songs! your watch is long, The soldiers' guard was brief; Whilst right is right, and wrong is wrong, Go! wearing the gray of grief! Go! watch o'er the Dead in Gray! Go! guard the private and guard the chief, And sentinel their clay! And the songs, in stately rhyme, And with softly-sounding tread, Go forth, to watch for a time—a time— And the songs, like funeral dirge, In music soft and low, Sing round the graves, whilst hot tears surge From hearts that are homes of woe. What though no sculptured shaft Immortalize each brave? What though no monument epitaphed When marble wears away, And monuments are dust, The songs that guard our soldiers' clay With lifted head, and steady tread, Go watch each bed, where rest the dead, Abram J. Ryan [1839-1888] HEROES THE winds that once the Argo bore But, out of their rest, no charm can wile And Priam's wail is heard no more Mother Earth, are the heroes dead? Do they thrill the soul of the years no more? Gone? In a grander form they rise. Dead? We may clasp their hands in ours, And catch the light of their clearer eyes, And wreathe their brows with immortal flowers. Wherever a noble deed is done, 'Tis the pulse of a hero's heart is stirred; Wherever Right has a triumph won, There are the heroes' voices heard. Their armor rings on a fairer field Than Greek and Trojan fiercely trod; For Freedom's sword is the blade they wield, Jason may sleep the years away; For the heroes live, and the sky is bright, Edna Dean Proctor [1838 THE DAWN OF PEACE YES-"on our brows we feel the breath A change has touched their dreams again. Voices, confused and faint, arise, Troubling their hearts from east and west. A doubtful light is in their skies, A gleam that will not let them rest! The dawn, the dawn is on the wing, The stir of change on every side, Unsignalled as the approach of spring, Invincible as the hawthorn tide. |