DECORATION DAY.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Sleep, comrades, sleep and restOn 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 feetAt the cannon’s sudden roar,Or the drum’s redoubling beat.But in this camp of DeathNo 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 beAs sentinels to keepYour rest from danger free.Your silent tents of greenWe deck with fragrant flowers;Yours has the suffering been,The memory shall be ours.

Sleep, comrades, sleep and restOn this Field of the Grounded Arms,Where foes no more molest,Nor sentry’s shot alarms!

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 feetAt the cannon’s sudden roar,Or the drum’s redoubling beat.

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 DeathNo sound your slumber breaks;Here is no fevered breath—No wound that bleeds and aches.

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!

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 beAs sentinels to keepYour rest from danger free.

Rest, comrades, rest and sleep!

The thoughts of men shall be

As sentinels to keep

Your rest from danger free.

Your silent tents of greenWe deck with fragrant flowers;Yours has the suffering been,The memory shall be ours.

Your silent tents of green

We deck with fragrant flowers;

Yours has the suffering been,

The memory shall be ours.

Harriet Prescott Spofford.

Where blood once quenched the camp-fire’s brand,On every sod throughout the landThe silver showers slip softly down;On every sod some growing stemLifts 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 dustThrough 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 bedLays it, a fragrant coverlid.You, who with garlands go about,As the tree-tilting bird pours outO’er either mound his singing bliss,Oh, kind as birds and breezes, leaveA flower on that grave, and on this!For, lo, the eternal truce of deathWas called upon the passing breath,And all the phantom hates, that shedTheir shadows round us as they stalked,Have no remembrance with the dead!

Where blood once quenched the camp-fire’s brand,On every sod throughout the landThe silver showers slip softly down;On every sod some growing stemLifts to the light a shining crown.

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 dustThrough which her pulses spring to bloom.

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.

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 bedLays it, a fragrant coverlid.

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 outO’er either mound his singing bliss,Oh, kind as birds and breezes, leaveA flower on that grave, and on this!

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 deathWas called upon the passing breath,And all the phantom hates, that shedTheir shadows round us as they stalked,Have no remembrance with the dead!

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!

Harriet McEwen Kimball.

Red Cypress! unto him who grieves,Reading sad legends in thy leaves,And finding in thy flowerAn emblem of the heart that bleeds,Say: The red blossom which I bearDoth symbolizeThe sacrificeOf that sublimest hourWhen 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 theeThe Flower of Consolation be—Unfolding peace, and not despair.With sharpest thorns set round,Teach him how Life may wearSharp griefs, and yet be crowned!Blue Harebell! that dost trembleTo the weird breath of Sorrow,Be to the mourning one Faith’s symbol;—Since thou dost borrowThe same soft hueHer eyes have won with constant looking up;God filleth thine inverted cupWith heaven’s own blue;So shall His sweet assurance fillThe heart bowed meekly to His will.

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 theeThe Flower of Consolation be—Unfolding peace, and not despair.With sharpest thorns set round,Teach him how Life may wearSharp griefs, and yet be crowned!

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 trembleTo the weird breath of Sorrow,Be to the mourning one Faith’s symbol;—Since thou dost borrowThe same soft hueHer eyes have won with constant looking up;God filleth thine inverted cupWith heaven’s own blue;So shall His sweet assurance fillThe heart bowed meekly to His will.

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 grassThe 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 bandWho loved their native land:Sweet rosemary, and purple pansies, and pale pinks;Green leaves from budding treesMake sweet the passing breeze—Sweet as the elegy the grateful nation thinks.For who would not prolongWith flowers and scent and songThe 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 standFor home and native land,And while our starry flag flies o’er the true and free,Honor and love and truthShall give immortal youth,And we’ll remember you upon the land and sea.”Harper’s Weekly.

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 bandWho loved their native land:Sweet rosemary, and purple pansies, and pale pinks;Green leaves from budding treesMake sweet the passing breeze—Sweet as the elegy the grateful nation thinks.

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 prolongWith flowers and scent and songThe 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.

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.

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 standFor home and native land,And while our starry flag flies o’er the true and free,Honor and love and truthShall give immortal youth,And we’ll remember you upon the land and sea.”

“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.

William H. Randall.

Soldiers! who freely for our country’s gloryUpheld 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 honorThat all our land united might be free,May shine for evermore upon our bannerEach 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 pinionsShall not again be wrought.And now with garlands decorate each dwellingWhere all that earth could claim serenely sleeps;While love, like perfume from the flower upwellingGrateful remembrance keeps.

Soldiers! who freely for our country’s gloryUpheld our flag on Southern hill and plain,Long may your deeds be told in grateful story,Ye have not lived in vain!

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 honorThat all our land united might be free,May shine for evermore upon our bannerEach star for liberty.

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.

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 pinionsShall not again be wrought.

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 dwellingWhere all that earth could claim serenely sleeps;While love, like perfume from the flower upwellingGrateful remembrance keeps.

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.

Celia Thaxter.

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 fifeAnd the bugle piping clear:The vivid and delicate lifeIn 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 shedThe beauty of blossoms and leaf.The flashing swords that were drawnNo 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?

Here bring your purple and gold,Glory of color and scent!Scarlet of tulips bold,Buds blue as the firmament.

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 fifeAnd the bugle piping clear:The vivid and delicate lifeIn the soul of the youthful year.

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 shedThe beauty of blossoms and leaf.

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 drawnNo rust shall their fame destroy!Boughs rosy as rifts of dawn,Like the blush on the cheek of joy.

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?

Rich fires of the gardens and meads,

We kindle these hearts above.

What splendor shall match their deeds;

What sweetness can match our love?

Margaret Sidney.

A little window-garden plot,Blooming in dusty street,Adown which poured the travelOf many weary feet;A cheery spot of brightnessBlooming 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 sweetCame out with fragrance rare.And now, this May-day morning,She stood in wealth of bloomThat beautified and perfumed allThe quaint, old-fashioned room.When suddenly the door was thrownAjar, and there stood Ray.“Give us your flowers, do, Blossom, do,For Decoration Day.”She looked around with pretty flushOf hurt surprise: “Ah, no;You know not what you ask, if youWould wish to rob me so.”“Torobyou?” Master Ray in scornFlashed out, then turned away;“The soldiers gave their all foryou:Youowethem flowers to-day.”“I ‘owethem flowers.’ Ah, true, indeed!Dear brother, please forgive.Those brave men died on battle-fieldsThat we at home might live;And I not lay a flower uponTheir graves in memory sweet!Oh, selfish heart! I have to mournIngratitude complete.Forgive me, Lord. They shall have all;Yes, glad I am to makeMy buds and blossoms into wreathsFor those dear patriots’ sake.”The May-day sun shone brilliantly;All Nature smiled to seeThe honors given to those who diedIn the cause of Liberty;But the sweetest gift from loving handsWas the bud, and flower, and spray,From the little child who gave her allOn that Memorial Day.

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 sweetCame out with fragrance rare.And now, this May-day morning,She stood in wealth of bloomThat beautified and perfumed allThe quaint, old-fashioned room.

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 thrownAjar, and there stood Ray.“Give us your flowers, do, Blossom, do,For Decoration Day.”She looked around with pretty flushOf hurt surprise: “Ah, no;You know not what you ask, if youWould wish to rob me so.”

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.”

“Torobyou?” Master Ray in scornFlashed out, then turned away;“The soldiers gave their all foryou:Youowethem flowers to-day.”“I ‘owethem flowers.’ Ah, true, indeed!Dear brother, please forgive.Those brave men died on battle-fieldsThat we at home might live;

“Torobyou?” Master Ray in scorn

Flashed out, then turned away;

“The soldiers gave their all foryou:

Youowethem flowers to-day.”

“I ‘owethem 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 uponTheir graves in memory sweet!Oh, selfish heart! I have to mournIngratitude complete.Forgive me, Lord. They shall have all;Yes, glad I am to makeMy buds and blossoms into wreathsFor those dear patriots’ sake.”

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 seeThe honors given to those who diedIn the cause of Liberty;But the sweetest gift from loving handsWas the bud, and flower, and spray,From the little child who gave her allOn that Memorial Day.

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.

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