The Republican journal. [volume] (Belfast, Me.) 1829-current, 1901-02-07
STOLE A POEM.
Moses owens Famous "Maine Battle Flags
Plagiarized.

Moses owens Famous ''Maine Battle Flags
Plagiarized.
The Hartford, Conn.,, Courant and the
people of that city and State have been
tremendously imposed upon by one
Francis Gallagher of the 18th Connecti-
cut Volunteers, who has such an inordi-
nate appreciation for the work of the
Bath poet, Moses Owen, that he has
appropriated an entire poem of Owen
which appeared over Gallagher's name
in the Courant of last Monday. The
plagiarism is undeniable, for the Con-
necticut impostor did not even take the
trouble to make the title unfamiliar.
''Tne Battle Flags is the one he uses
instead of the original title ''The Re
turned Maine Battle Flags
Moses Owens poem is familiar to
most Maine people, who all know the
story, how the poet, standing near the
case containing the sacred battle flags,
heard woman's chance remark, ooh,
those are nothing but flags. Let's not
go in there" and how that careless bit
of irreverence inspired the beautiful
verses which have since hung framed
among the flags and have touched so
many hearts.
The poem also appeared in little
L. L
ments," and entered according to act of
who dedicated it as follows to Baths
beloved benefactor:
To my cherished friend, Thomas w.
Hyde, is dedicated this modest little
book in memory of "DayS Departed
whose inspiration yet fingers in the
memory,
''Telling Of happy deans of happy hours,
Ixyhia
thee
Mr.. Owens poem on "The Returned
Maine Battle Flags follows in full
The imposition in the Courant differs
not at all from the original but for a
''typo'' here and there, except in the
third and fourth lines of the third
stanza, which in the Hartford version
are as follows:
Of earnest prayers for the absent men
Of the battlefield and the prison pen.
Not an improvement, certainly, on
the original.
THE RETURNED MAINE BATTLEFLAGS.
Which Hang in the Rotunda of the State
House at Augusta.
Nothing but fiags-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,
That have marched beneath them in DAYS
gone by
With burning cheek and kindling eye,
And have bathed their folds with their
young life's tide,
And dying, blessed them, and blessing, died.
Nothing but fags-yet, methinks, at night,
And dim spectres come, and their thin arms
Round each standard torn-as they stand
in line.
AS the word is given-they charge! they
And the dim hall rings with the battles
And once again, through the smoke and
strife,
Those colors lead to a Nations life.
Nothing but flags-yet they're bathed with
They tell Of triumphs, of hopes-of fears;
OF mothers prayers-of boy away,
OF serpent crushed-ot the coming day;
Silent, they speak-and the tear will start,
As we stand beneath them with throbbing |
heart, |
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 fags-yet the thought will |
come.
The hearts must pray though the lips be |
dumb;
They are sacred, pure, and we see no stain
On those dear loved flags come home again |
Baptized in blood, our purest, best,
Tattered and torn, they're now at rest.
-AaroHrA.
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