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Page 179
Furl that banner, furl it sadly;
Once six millions hailed it gladly,
And three hundred thousand, madly,
Swore it should forever wave--
Swore that foeman's sword should never
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever--
That their flag should float forever
O'er their freedom or their grave!
Furl it, for the hands that grasped it,
And the hearts that fondly clasped it,
Cold and dead are lying low;
And that banner--it is trailing,
While around it sounds the wailing
Of its people in their woe;
For, though conquered, they adore it,
Love the cold, dead hands that bore it,
Weep for those who fell before it--
Oh! how wildly they deplore it,
Now to furl and fold it so!
Furl that banner; true 'tis gory,
But 'tis wreathed around with glory,
And'twill live in song and story,
Though its folds are in the dust;
For its fame, on brightest pages--
Sung by poets, penned by sages--
Shall go sounding down to ages--
Furl its folds though now we must.
Furl that banner-softly, slowly;
Furl it gently, it is holy,
For it droops above the dead.
Touch it not, unfurl it never,
Let it droop there, furled forever,
For its people's hopes are fled.
Ashes of Glory.
A. J. Requier.
Fold up the gorgeous silken sun,
By bleeding martyrs blest,
And heap the laurels it has won
Above its place of rest.
No trumpet's note need harshly blare--
No drum funereal roll--
Nor trailing sables drape the bier
That frees a dauntless soul!
It lived with Lee, and decked his brow
From Fate's empyreal Palm:
It sleeps the sleep of Jackson now--
As spotless and as calm.
It was outnumbered--not outdone;
And they shall shuddering tell,
Who struck the blow, its latest gun
Flashed ruin as it fell.
Sleep, shrouded Ensign! not the breeze
That smote the victor tar,
With death across the heaving seas
Of fiery Trafalgar;
Not Arthur's knights, amid the gloom
Their knightly deeds have starred;
Nor Gallic Henry's matchless plume,
Nor peerless-born Bayard;
Not all that antique fables feign,
And Orient dreams disgorge;
Nor yet, the Silver Cross of Spain,
And Lion of St. George,
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