The Conquered Banner

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Came the dusky martyrs of Pillow's fight,
With limbs enfranchised and bearing bright;
I thought-perhaps 'twas the pale moonlight-
They looked as white as their brothers!

And so all night marched the Nation's dead,
With never a banner above them spread,
Nor a badge, nor a motto brandished;
No mark-save the bare uncovered head
Of the silent bronze Reviewer;

With never an arch save the vaulted sky;
With never a flower save those that lie
On the distant graves-for love could buy
No gift that was purer or truer.

So all night long swept the strange array;
So all night long, till the morning gray,
I watched for one who had passed away,
With a reverent awe and wonder,—

Till a blue cap waved in the lengthening line,
And I knew that one who was kin of mine
Had come; and I spake and lo! that sign
Awakened me from my slumber.

Bret Harte [1839-1902]

THE CONQUERED BANNER

FURL that Banner, for 'tis weary;
Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary;
Furl it, fold it-it is best;

For there's not a man to wave it,
And there's not a sword to save it,
And there's not one left to lave it
In the blood which heroes gave it;
And its foes now scorn and brave it;
Furl it, hide it-let it rest!

Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered;
Broken is its shaft and shattered;
And the valiant hosts are scattered

Over whom it floated high.
Oh, 'tis hard for us to fold it,
Hard to think there's none to hold it,
Hard that those who once unrolled it
Now must furl it with a sigh!

Furl that Banner-furl it sadly;
Once ten thousands hailed it gladly,
And ten thousands wildly, madly,

Swore it should forever wave-
Swore that foeman's sword should never
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever,
And that 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!

Pardon those who trailed and tore it!
But, oh, wildly they deplore it,
Now who furl and fold it so!

Furl that Banner! True, 'tis gory,
Yet '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,
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,

Driving Home the Cows

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.

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Abram J. Ryan [1839-1888]

DRIVING HOME THE COWS

OUT of the clover and blue-eyed grass,
He turned them into the river-lane;
One after another he let them pass,
Then fastened the meadow-bars again.

Under the willows, and over the hill,
He patiently followed their sober pace;
The
merry whistle for once was still,

And something shadowed the sunny face.

Only a boy! and his father had said

He never could let his youngest go: Two already were lying dead

Under the feet of the trampling foe.

But after the evening work was done,

And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun,

And stealthily followed the foot-path damp,

Across the clover, and through the wheat,
With resolute heart and purpose grim,
Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet,
And the blind bat's flitting startled him.

Thrice since then had the lanes been white,
And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom;
And now, when the cows came back at night,
The feeble father drove them home.

For news had come to the lonely farm
That three were lying where two had lain;
And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm
Could never lean on a son's again.

The summer day grew cold and late.

He went for the cows when the work was done; But down the lane, as he opened the gate, He saw them coming, one by one,—

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess,

Shaking their horns in the evening wind;
Cropping the buttercups out of the grass,-
But who was it following close behind?
Loosely swung in the idle air

The empty sleeve of army blue;
And worn and pale, from the crisping hair,
Looked out a face that the father knew.

For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn,
And yield their dead unto life again;
And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn
In golden glory at last may wane.

The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes;
For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb;
And under the silent evening skies,

Together they followed the cattle home.

Kate Putnam Osgood [1841

BEFORE SEDAN

[AUGUST 29-SEPTEMBER 1, 1870]

"The dead hand clasped a letter "—Special Correspondence

HERE in this leafy place,

Quiet he lies,

Cold, with his sightless face

Turned to the skies;

"Tis but another dead;
All you can say is said.

Carry his body hence,

Kings must have slaves;
Kings climb to eminence

Over men's graves:

Custer's Last Charge

So this man's eye is dim;-
Throw the earth over him.

What was the white you touched,
There, at his side?

Paper his hand had clutched

Tight ere he died;

Message or wish, may be:

Smooth out the folds and see.

Hardly the worst of us

Here could have smiled!

Only the tremulous

Words of a child;—

Prattle, that had for stops
Just a few ruddy drops.

Look. She is sad to miss.
Morning and night,

His her dead father's-kiss;

Tries to be bright,

Good to mamma, and sweet.
That is all. "Marguerite."

Ah, if beside the dead
Slumbered the pain!

Ah, if the hearts that bled
Slept with the slain!

If the grief died;-But no;

Death will not have it so.

Austin Dobson [1840

CUSTER'S LAST CHARGE

[JUNE 25, 1876]

DEAD! Is it possible? He, the bold rider,

Custer, our hero, the first in the fight, Charming the bullets of yore to fly wider,

Far from our battle-king's ringlets of light!

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