The Republican journal., 1888-03-22

with this may be mentioned Il very short poem
by Henry Timrod, entitled
THE BOYS WHO FELL ON THE OTHER SIDE.
''Slcep sweetly in your humble graves
Sleep martyrs of a fallen cause.
Though yet no marble column Graves
The pilgrim here to pause.
In seeds of laurel in the earth.
The blossom of your fame is blown,
And somewhere, waiting for its BIRTH
The shaft is in the stone.''
If "brcvity is the soul of wit" why should
it hot sometimes be the soul of poetry. As wit
hess ;hc following lines hy Gen. Morris SHAFT
of Pitt>feld, on the death of Gen. Bartlett:
''For the sake of his gentlcness
For the sake of his manlinesS
For the sake of the wilderness.
Where his blood stained the lea.
For the sake of the duties done.
For the sake of the fame he won.
For the sake of the days to come
Green may his memory be-"
Whittier also beautifully eulogizcd Gen.
Ba-tlett in poem on his DEATH when lie
says:
"Mourn Essex, OH thy sea yirt shore,
The beautiful and brave.
Whose dying hands the olive bore.
Whose diving lips forgave.'
After the Custer massacre in the Black Hills
Mr.. Leavitt Hunt contributed some fine verses
to the New York Evening Post, in which ii"
advanced the idea of the heroes of BaIaklaya.
the ''glorious six hundred" meeting the heroic
Custer and his men, in these lines:
'''The sun sank down, deep dyed in blood
When 10. Il phantom shade
OF kindred spirits capped with hood
In battle line. TO GREET them stool
The ieathless Light Brigade.
''In low salute their colors dip.
As Custer moves before:
Their >aber> sink in veteran grip,
One CLEAN illumines every tip.
To comrades as OF yOre.
''Thcy wheel in rear, with pennon lance
An escort. man for man.
Their champing chargers proudly prance.
Through arch of glory they advance.
And Caster leads the van.''
l spoke in my frs. paper of much poetry he
ing written by military men. In this conncc-
tion l wish to mention the familiar poem, ~
am Dying, Egypt Dying" which was written
lly Gen. W. ii. Lytlc. of Ohio. lie was one of
the gallant dead who fell at Chickamauga. and
the Richmond Enquirer of that date has this to
say in regard to his death. Just how much
truth there may be in the story told by the
southern paper have no means of knowing.
In historical sense it may he pure rubbish,
but as history is apt to rub the bloom of of the
most glowing deeds, perhaps this story Will one
day be included in ''thc murder of the inno-
cents The Enquirer says: "iIe was
killed far in advance of his command. while
gallantiy leading an assault upon our lines.
His horse bore his corpse into our lines. and
the steed and its. dead rider We're both captur-
ed. As soon as it was known that the author
of that rare poem, as familiar South as North.
81 am Dying. Egypt, ID! ing" lay dead in camp,
officers and men crowded around to take Il last
look at the face of the poe->odier, who had
achieved so great literary triumph. There
enemy, but there was in truth, something on
each soldiers cheek that for the moment wash
ed away the stains of powder. Tcndery they
took him up. and when the battle was over. an
escort of honor, appointed from among the
leading Confederate officers, bore him back to
his own camp under IA tlag of truce. on Il rude
ly constructed funeral bier. with his martial
Niodk Ill OuIlu III Ilit toutiit' tIlt
chord of human sympathy which makes all the
world kin, and in death, its harmonious vibra-
tons >iicnced all resentment and thrilled tie
hearts alike of friends and foes with Il nobIcr
passion than hatred or revenge
| will mention here Il poem entitled The
Glorious Dead" and written by Col. Theodore
O'IIara, of kentucky, during the Mexican war ::
rhn n,,f3l, Il Il h.- In,t
The soldiers last tatto.
No more on life's parade shall meet
The brave and gallant few.
On flames eternal camping ground
Their silent tents are spread.
And glory guards with solemn sound
The bivouac of the dead"
The last half of this stanza has become t;s-
miar quotation, though its origin is not gencr-
ally known. All who have visited the National
Cemetery at Gettysburg have doubtless seen
the quotations from the poem placed at inter
walls on tablets, near the winding road that
borders the different sections of graves.
l will close this article with beautiful poem
by Maine author. When the laurel wrcathS
are placed upon the brows of the war poets.
let the beautiful Goddess not forget Moses q.
Owen, of Bath, Me-, who wrote, "Nothing
But Flags" Nothing has ever been written
that is sweeter or purer. The gifted author
sleeps in his lonely grave victim of intemper-
ance, but the memory of what he might have
been lives in this poem. which was suggested
by visit to the State House at Augusta. where
the battle flags of Maine have Leen arranged by
the hand of an artist. This poem speaks for
itself. and not only appeals to the heart by its
pathos and power, but tells all too plainly
what the author was capable Of had he chosen
the 'better part"
NOTHING BUT FLAGS.
Nothing but fags-but simple flags.
Tattered and torn and hanging in rags;
And we walk beneath them with careless tread,
Nor think of the hosts of the mighty dead
Who have marched beneath them in DAYS gone
by,
With a Burning cheek and Il kindling eye,
And have bathed their folds in their young
life's tide,
And dying blessed them, and blessing died.
Nothing but hags-yet methinks at night
They tell each other their tales Of fright,
And dim specters come and their thin arms
twine
Round each standard torn as they stand in line.
And the word is given-they charge they form
And the dim hall rings with the battle storm.
And once again through the smoke and strife
Those cOors lead to Il Nations life.
Nothing but 1ags-yet they're bathed in tears
They tell of triumphs, of hopes, of fears:
OF mothers prayers of boy away,
OF serpent crushed, Of the coming day!
Silent they speak. yet the tear will start,
As we stand beneath them with throbbing hear,
And think of those who are ne'er forgot,
Their flags come home, why come they not? :
Nothing but flags-yet we hold our breath
And gaze with awe at those types of death,
Nothing but flags. yet the tn ought will come.
The heart must speak. though the lips he dumb
They are sacred. pure. and we see no stain
| On our dear loyed flags, come home again,
Baptized in blood, our purest, best,
! Tattered and torn, they're now Mt rest.