html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }The first faint notes from my untutored lyre
In early youth were breathed to Freedom's name,
And years have taught that bard cannot aspire
To loftier theme or more ennobling strain.
Ah, then, thou Muse! who dost inspire my song
To Freedom, let thy thoughts be consecrate.
Welcome this phalanx of the soldier throng,
Who fought to keep her shrine inviolate.
Be thine, O willing Muse, the grateful task
Their many deeds of valor to recall;
Pour out the wine of mem'ry's fragrant flask,
And let it shimmer o'er the deeds of all.
No more the din of war is in the air,
Its cruel echoes long have died away;
Knapsacks are dusty, sabres rusting where
They long have rested from the bloody fray.
The brilliant battle-flags, grimy and torn,
Are folded; and each glittering sword is sheathed;
Muskets are stacked, and through the fields are borne
The melodies by peaceful workers breathed.
And homes are happy; then upon this day
Forget not, these are of the soldier boys
Who, in the weary march and deadly fray,
Wrought for our land the peace she now enjoys.
They tramped through tangled wood and mountain glen,
Through fevered swamp and baleful black bayou;
Languished perhaps in dreary prison pen
For Freedom's flag—the red, the white and blue.
Theirs are the tears of many a battle plain,
The memories of great privations borne;
Of patient sacrifice and hours of pain,
Afar from home and loving kindred torn.
What now our fortune, had their sturdy arms
And those of their brave comrades failed us, when
Black treason filled the land with dire alarms,
And reared her hydra-head in every glen?
What would it brook us this autumnal day
That plenteous crops are garnered east and west;
That sunrise clouds of gold and coral ray
Portend a dawning with rich promise blest?
For all the lands we till, the homes we claim
Were then the haughty foeman's whom we dread.
Ours were a heritage of grief and shame
And we were friends and Liberty were dead.
Our glorious flag, now floating high and higher,
Were trailed in dust, trampled 'neath dastard feet,
While in its place on sunlit tower and spire
Were hung the banner we disdain to greet.
O, hopeless picture! shrinkingly we turn
With deeper gratitude to those who wore
The true blue colors, and with sorrow burn
For all the dead ones who can come no more.
In southern everglade, by southern stream,
'Neath blue waves where the Cumberland went down,
These heroes, slain for Liberty, now dream
The endless sleep, having attained the crown.
On Fame's escutcheon written are their deeds,
Embalmed in faithful hearts their memories dwell,
Who answered with their lives their country's needs,
And won the meed, "Servant, thou hast done well."
To-day we cannot greet them—mute they lie,
Heedless of hopes that in our bosoms stir;
Nor peal of drum, nor horn, nor bugle cry
Can be to them a thought's interpreter.
But when these soldiers, having mission still
To fight for truth in years of civic rule,
Have further striven with brave and virtuous will
To break the teachings of dark error's school:
When they in life's great battle faint, and fold
Their pallid hands and close their weary eyes,
The comrade whom they now no more behold
Will welcome to reunion in the skies.