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 staff 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 could 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 the 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,
 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.

Abram Joseph Ryan.

DEATH OF GRANT

AS one by one withdraw the lofty actors
From that great play on history’s stage eternal,
 That lurid, partial act of war and peace—of old and new contending,
 Fought out through wrath, fears, dark dismays, and many a long suspense;
 All past—and since, in countless graves receding, mellowing
 Victor and vanquished—Lincoln’s and Lee’s—now thou with them,
 Man of the mighty day—and equal to the day!
 Thou from the prairies?—and tangled and many veined and hard has been thy part,
 To admiration has it been enacted!

Walt Whitman.

The humblest soldier who carried a musket is entitled to as much credit for the results of the war as those who were in command.

U. S. Grant.

U. S. Grant. U. S. Grant.

ROBERT E. LEE

A GALLANT foeman in the fight,
A brother when the fight was o’er,
 The hand that led the host with might
 The blessed torch of learning bore.

No shriek of shells nor roll of drums,
 No challenge fierce, resounding far,
 When reconciling wisdom comes
 To heal the cruel wounds of war.
Thought may the minds of men divide,
 Love makes the heart of nations one,
 And so, thy soldier grave beside,
 We honor thee, Virginia’s son.

Julia Ward Howe.

Robert E. Lee. Robert E. Lee.

OLD GLORY ON THE ISLAND

MEN who have had grave differences and looked at each other coldly and passed with unsmiling faces have, when some calamity threatened, sprang shoulder to shoulder and spent their united strength in defense of a common cause.

Thus in the Spanish-American spurt of war,—serious enough, too serious, alas, in some aspects; but great in some of its beneficent results. In that call, “To Arms!” was laid to rest—forever forgotten—the old enmity between the North and the South, engendered by the Civil Strife.

On the island of Cuba, the trenches of the United States Army were five miles in extent and in shape of a horseshoe. Above the trenches, five curving miles of Stars and Stripes gleamed.

To the United States prisoners, confined in the prison, within sight of these flags, but under the flag of Spain, the waving emblems before their eyes brought daily hope and courage.

In full vision of the men in the trenches fluttered the flag of Spain; above their heads Old Glory flew,—the sheltering Stripes and Stars.

As night came down, and land and shimmering sea was bathed in the white light of the sub-tropics, the strains of the “Star-Spangled Banner” were borne upon the air and fell away softly, as if coming from across the water. Every man uncovered and stood with silent lips, and eyes fixed upon Old Glory until the last echoing note died in the distance, then turned again to duties; but upon his face was stamped the deeper understanding of the meaning of it all—of Flag, and Home, and Country.

Eyes fixed on Old Glory. Every man uncovered and stood with silent lips, and eyes fixed on Old Glory.

Thus from the shores of a tropic island, fighting together for the flag of the nation, both Blue and Gray gained a new and happier viewpoint; and looking back across the warm and shining waters of the Gulf Stream, each knew that all was good, and said:—

“Lo! from the thunder-strife,
 And from the blown, white ashes of the dead,
 We rise to larger life.”
“There is a peace amid’st the shock of arms,
 That satisfies the soul, though all the air
 Hurtles with horror and with rude alarms.”
“That clarion cry, My country! makes men one.”

WHEELER’S BRIGADE AT SANTIAGO

'NEATH the lanes of the tropic sun
The column is standing ready,
 Awaiting the fateful command of one
 Whose word will ring out
 To an answering shout
 To prove it alert and steady.
 And a stirring chorus all of them sung
 With singleness of endeavor,
 Though some to “The Bonny Blue Flag” had swung
 And some to “The Union For Ever.”

The order came sharp through the desperate air
 And the long ranks rose to follow,
 Till their dancing banners shone more fair
 Than the brightest ray
 Of the Cuban day
 On the hill and jungled hollow;
 And to “Maryland” some in the days gone by
 Had fought through the combat’s rumble
 And some for “Freedom’s Battle-Cry”
 Had seen the broad earth crumble.
Full many a widow weeps in the night
 Who had been a man’s wife in the morning;
 For the banners we loved we bore to the height
 Where the enemy stood
 As a hero should
 His valor his country adorning;
 But drops of pride with your tears of grief,
 Ye American women, mix ye!
 For the North and South, with a Southern chief,
 Kept time to the tune of “Dixie.”

Wallace Rice.

SOLDIERS

SO many, many soldiers
At reveille fared forth;
 Such ready, willing soldiers,
 From sunny South and North.

So many gallant soldiers
 At noon to face the fight;
 So many weary wounded
 Home-dreaming in the night.
So many quick to answer
 To drum and bugle sound;
 So many war-scarred sleepers
 On death’s white-tented ground.
O soldiers, silent soldiers,
 Calm-sleeping in the sun,
 Beneath one happy flag again,
 God rest you, every one.
Of every human difference
 Great Time, the high priest, shrives;
 While Southern winds are telling
 The fragrance of brave lives.
Beneath the Southern willows,
 In slumber folded deep,
 O soldiers, brothers, every one,
 God’s peace attend your sleep.

Will Allen Dromgoole.

Our battle-fields, safe in the keeping,
 Of Nature’s kind, fostering care,
 Are blooming,—our heroes are sleeping,—
 And peace broods perennial there.
 All over our land rings the story
 Of loyalty, fervent and true;
 “One flag, and that flag is Old Glory,”
 Alike for the Gray and the Blue.

John Howard Jewett.

Printed in the United States of America.

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