DECORATION DAY.

Sleep, comrades, sleep and rest On this Field of the Grounded Arms, Where foes no more molest, Nor sentry’s shot alarms! Ye have slept on the ground before, And started to your feet At the cannon’s sudden roar, Or the drum’s redoubling beat. But in this camp of Death No sound your slumber breaks; Here is no fevered breath— No wound that bleeds and aches. All is repose and peace; Untrampled lies the sod; The shouts of battle cease: It is the Truce of God! Rest, comrades, rest and sleep! The thoughts of men shall be As sentinels to keep Your rest from danger free. Your silent tents of green We deck with fragrant flowers; Yours has the suffering been, The memory shall be ours.

Where blood once quenched the camp-fire’s brand, On every sod throughout the land The silver showers slip softly down; On every sod some growing stem Lifts to the light a shining crown. For underneath her bending blue, With leaf and sunshine, moon and dew, Glad Nature gilds the graveside gloom, Nor asks what passions stirred the dust Through which her pulses spring to bloom. While from the gardens of the South, Like blessings blown from some warm mouth, The wooing wind steals all day long— Steals lingeringly from grave to grave, With breath of blossom, breath of song. A common flag, breeze, showers and flowers, Are weaving all these sunny hours, Where broken hearts and hopes are hid, And the great mother on each bed Lays it, a fragrant coverlid. You, who with garlands go about, As the tree-tilting bird pours out O’er either mound his singing bliss, Oh, kind as birds and breezes, leave A flower on that grave, and on this! For, lo, the eternal truce of death Was called upon the passing breath, And all the phantom hates, that shed Their shadows round us as they stalked, Have no remembrance with the dead!

Red Cypress! unto him who grieves, Reading sad legends in thy leaves, And finding in thy flower An emblem of the heart that bleeds, Say: The red blossom which I bear Doth symbolize The sacrifice Of that sublimest hour When Love fulfilled all human needs; Bound Death, the Victor, as a slave; Flung wide the sealed gates of the grave, And set His angels, warders, there. White Rose! to him who gathers thee The Flower of Consolation be— Unfolding peace, and not despair. With sharpest thorns set round, Teach him how Life may wear Sharp griefs, and yet be crowned! Blue Harebell! that dost tremble To the weird breath of Sorrow, Be to the mourning one Faith’s symbol;— Since thou dost borrow The same soft hue Her eyes have won with constant looking up; God filleth thine inverted cup With heaven’s own blue; So shall His sweet assurance fill The heart bowed meekly to His will.

Through the long bending grass The white-robed maidens pass, With tender faces, and with footsteps soft and slow, Upon each lowly grave, Where sleeps the true and brave, Dropping red roses and wan lilies as they go. Flowers for the patriot band Who loved their native land: Sweet rosemary, and purple pansies, and pale pinks; Green leaves from budding trees Make sweet the passing breeze— Sweet as the elegy the grateful nation thinks. For who would not prolong With flowers and scent and song The memory of those who fell in freedom’s fight? From the sweet month of May, Then choose the fairest day, And crown it for the honored dead with all things bright. Then say: “O singing birds, Echo these tender words: While bosoms nobly throb, and women’s eyes are wet, While roses bud and blow, While stars at evening glow, While daylight breaks for us, we never will forget. “As long as men shall stand For home and native land, And while our starry flag flies o’er the true and free, Honor and love and truth Shall give immortal youth, And we’ll remember you upon the land and sea.” Harper’s Weekly.

Soldiers! who freely for our country’s glory Upheld our flag on Southern hill and plain, Long may your deeds be told in grateful story, Ye have not lived in vain! Brothers! who fought for more than empty honor That all our land united might be free, May shine for evermore upon our banner Each star for liberty. Heroes! who toiled through all the dusty marches, And life surrendered on those shot-plowed fields, To ye who fled where the blue sky o’erarches, Tribute a nation yields. Your spirits, watching from out heaven’s dominions, Shall not see lost what ye so dearly bought; The shackles that once clogged the eagle’s pinions Shall not again be wrought. And now with garlands decorate each dwelling Where all that earth could claim serenely sleeps; While love, like perfume from the flower upwelling Grateful remembrance keeps.

Here bring your purple and gold, Glory of color and scent! Scarlet of tulips bold, Buds blue as the firmament. Hushed is the sound of the fife And the bugle piping clear: The vivid and delicate life In the soul of the youthful year. We bring to the quiet dead, With a gentle and tempered grief; O’er the mounds so mute we shed The beauty of blossoms and leaf. The flashing swords that were drawn No rust shall their fame destroy! Boughs rosy as rifts of dawn, Like the blush on the cheek of joy. Rich fires of the gardens and meads, We kindle these hearts above. What splendor shall match their deeds; What sweetness can match our love?

A little window-garden plot, Blooming in dusty street, Adown which poured the travel Of many weary feet; A cheery spot of brightness Blooming for all to see. Oh, that was Blossom’s garden-bed, Who loved it tenderly. At morn, at noon, at even, She dealt out faithful care; And many buds and flowerets sweet Came out with fragrance rare. And now, this May-day morning, She stood in wealth of bloom That beautified and perfumed all The quaint, old-fashioned room. When suddenly the door was thrown Ajar, and there stood Ray. “Give us your flowers, do, Blossom, do, For Decoration Day.” She looked around with pretty flush Of hurt surprise: “Ah, no; You know not what you ask, if you Would wish to rob me so.” “To rob you?” Master Ray in scorn Flashed out, then turned away; “The soldiers gave their all for you: You owe them flowers to-day.” “I ‘owe them flowers.’ Ah, true, indeed! Dear brother, please forgive. Those brave men died on battle-fields That we at home might live; And I not lay a flower upon Their graves in memory sweet! Oh, selfish heart! I have to mourn Ingratitude complete. Forgive me, Lord. They shall have all; Yes, glad I am to make My buds and blossoms into wreaths For those dear patriots’ sake.” The May-day sun shone brilliantly; All Nature smiled to see The honors given to those who died In the cause of Liberty; But the sweetest gift from loving hands Was the bud, and flower, and spray, From the little child who gave her all On that Memorial Day.