For, though conquered, they adore it,--
Love the cold, dead hands that bore it,
Weep for those who fell before it,
Pardon those who trailed and tore it;
And oh, wildly they deplore it,
Now to furl and fold it so!
Furl that Banner! True, 'tis gory,
Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory,
And 't will live in song and story
Though its folds are in the dust!
For its fame on brightest pages,
Penned by poets and by sages,
Shall go sounding down the ages--
Furl its folds though now we must.
Furl that Banner, softly, slowly!
Treat it gently--it is holy,
For it droops above the dead.
Touch it not--unfold it never;
Let it droop there, furled forever,--
For its people's hopes are fled!
ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN.
* * * * *
ALL.
There hangs a sabre, and there a rein,
With a rusty buckle and green curb chain;
A pair of spurs on the old gray wall,
And a mouldy saddle--well, that is all.
Come out to the stable--it is not far;
The moss grown door is hanging ajar.
Look within! There's an empty stall,
Where once stood a charger, and that is all.
The good black horse came riderless home,
Flecked with blood drops as well as foam;
See yonder hillock where dead leaves fall;
The good black horse pined to death--that's all.
All? O, God! it is all I can speak.
Question me not--I am old and weak;
His sabre and his saddle hang on the wall,
And his horse pined to death--I have told you all.
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