Buchanan County bulletin. [volume] (Independence, Iowa) 1869-1891, 1875-06-25
THE NORTHERN sPRING--ls75.
A POEM FOR DECORATION DAY.

Where once the kissing death bolt fell,
And all along the artillery's level lines
Leapt flames Of hell,
The farmer smiles upon the sprouting grain,
And tends his vines.
Seems never to have been?
o somber days and grand,
How ye crowd back once more,
Seeing our heroes graves are green
By the Potomac and the Cumberland,
And in the valley OF the Shenandoah.
Now while the pale arbutus in our woods
Wakes to faint life beneath the dead years leaves
And the bleak North let's loose its wailing BROOD
OF wind upon u.s. a, and the gray ray sea sea grieyes YES,
Heavily presses on New Eugland's heart,
And Spring withholds the sunshine Of her eyes
Lest some vain cowslip should untimely start
While we are housed in this rude seasons gloom
In this rude land,
Bereft OF warmth and bloom,
We know, far off beneath the Southern skies,
Where the flush blossoms mock our drifts Of snow
And the 1.-THE vine unfoldo its emerald sheen
On many a sunny hillside there, we know
Our heroes graves are green!
The long years come, but they
Come not again!
Through yapors dense and gray
Steals back the May,
But they come not again
Swept by the battles fiery breath
Down unknown ways Of DEATH
How can our fancies help but go
Out from this realm of mist and rain,
Out from this realm of seet and snow,
When the first Southern viOlets blow!
While vet the year is Young
Many garland shall be hung
In our gardens of the dead;
On Obelisk and urn
Shall the myrtle's azure burn,
And the wild rose leaves be shed,
And afar in the woodland ways,
Through the rustic churchyard gate
Matrons and maidens shall pass,
Striplings and white haired men,
And. spreading aside the grass,
Linger at name and date.
Remembering old, old days!
And the lettering on each stone
Where the mold's green breath has blown
Tears shall wash clean again,
On the banks Of silvery streams gurgling among
their reeds,
By many dreary morass, where the long necket
BY many dark bayou, and binding dune OF sand
By many cypress swamp where the cayman seek'
In many a moss hung wood, the twiloht's haunt
by day,
And down where the lands parched lips drinks
At the salt sea waves,
And the ghostly sails glide by--there are piteOus
nameless graves!
Their names no tongue Can tell,
Buried there where they fell,
The bravest OF Onr braves!
Never sweetheart, or friend,
Wan. pale mother or bride,
Over those mounds shall bend
Tenderly putting aside
The unremembered grass!
Never the native wreath
For the unknown brows beneath,
Never a tear, alas
How can our fancies help but 60
Out from this realm of mist and rain,
Out from this realm Of sleet and Snow,
When the first Southern v0lents blOWy
How our thoughts must bend over them,
Blessing the flowers that cover them
Piteous nameless graves.
All, but the life they gave
IL not shut in the grave:
The vaorous spirit freed
Live in the vital deed
Marble shall crumble to dust.
Plinth of bronze and OF stone.
Carved escutcheon and crest
Silently. one by One
The sculptured lilies fall;
Softly the tooth OF the rest
Gnaws through the braZen shield:
Broken. and covered with stains,
The crossed stone swords must yield:
Mined by the frost and the drouth,
Smtten by north and south,
-Smtten by east and west
Down comes column and all!
But the great deed remains.
When we remember how they died
In the dark ravine and on the mountain side,
In leaguered fort and fire-encirclcd town.
Upon the gunboat's splintered deck,
And where the iron ships went down.
How their dear lives were spent,
In the crushed and Redeemed wreck,
BY lone lagoons aud streams,
In the weary hospital tent,
in the cockpit's crowded hive
How they languished and died
In the block stockade-it seems
Ignoble to be alive
Tears will well to our eyes
And the bitter doubt will rise
But hush! for the strife is done.
Forgiven are wound and scar:
The fight was fought and won
Long since, on sea and shore.
And every scattered star
Set in the blue once more;
We are one as before,
With the blot from our escutcheon gone
So let our heroes rest
Upon your sunny breast:
Keep them, 0 South, in your tender hearts ano
true;
Keep them o South, and learn to hold them deal
From year to year!
Never forget,
Dying for us. they died for you.
This hallowed dust should knit us closer yet.
Hark! it's the buebird's venturous strain
High on the old fringed elm at the gate.
Sweet-voiced, valiant on the swaying bough
Alert, eate,
Dodging the fitful spits Of snow,
New England's poet-laureate,
Telling us Spring has come again!