Ina Donna Coolbrith (Ина Донна Кулбрит)
Memorial Poem
WRITTEN FOR THE GRAND ARMY OF THE REPUBLIC, SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA, DECORATION DAY, 1881.THE sea-tides ebb and flow; The seasons come and go, Summer and sun succeed the cloud and snow, And April rain awakes the violet. Earth puts away Her sombre robes, and cheeks with tear-drops wet In some sad yesterday Dimple again with smiles, and half forget Their grief, as the warm rose Forgets the night-dews when the noontide glows. Change follows upon change Swift as the hours; and far away, and strange As the dim memory of night's troubled dream In dawn's returning beam, Seem the dark, troubled years, The sad, but glorious years, Writ on the nation's heart in blood and tears. Ah, God! and yet we know It was no dream in those days, long ago: It was no dream, the beat To arms, the steady tramp along the street Of answering thousands, quick with word and deed Unto their country's need; No dream the banners, flinging, fresh and fair, Their colors on the air — Not stained and worn like these Returning witnesses, With sad, dumb lips, most eloquent of those Returning nevermore! Of those on many a hard-fought battlefield, From hand to hand that bore Their starry folds, and, knowing not to yield, Fell, with a brave front steady to their foes. Year after year the spring steals back again, Bringing the bird and blossom in her train, Beauty and melody, But they return no more! Borne on what tides of pain, Over the unknown sea, Unto the unknown shore: Amid the pomp and show Of glittering ranks, the cannon's smoke and roar, Tossed in the rock and reel Of the wild waves of battle to and fro, Amid the roll of drums, the ring of steel, The clash of sabre, and the fiery hell Of bursting shot and shell, The scream of wounded steeds, the thunder tones Of firm command, the prayers, the cheers, the groans, War's mingled sounds of triumph and despair Blending with trumpet-blast and bugle-blare. But not alone amid the battle wrack They died, — our brave true men. By southern glade and glen, In dark morass, within whose, pathless deeps, The serpent coils and creeps, They fell, with the fierce bloodhound on their track. Amid the poisonous breath Of crowded cells, and the rank, festering death Of the dread prison-pen; From dreary hospital, And the dear, sheltering wall Of home, that claimed them but to lose again, They passed away, — the army of our slain! O Leader! tried and true, What words may speak of thee? Last sacrifice divine, Upon our country's shrine! O man, that towered above Thy fellow-men, with heart the tenderest, And "whitest soul the nation ever knew!" Bravest and kingliest! We lay our sorrow down Before thee, as a crown; We fold thee with our love In silence: where are words to speak of thee? For us the budded laughter of the May Is beautiful to-day, Upon the land, but nevermore for them, Our heroes gone, the rose upon its stem Unfolds, or the fair lily blooms to bless Their living eyes, with its pure loveliness; No song-bird at the morn Greets them with gladness of 'a day new-born; No kiss of child or wife Warms their cold lips again to love and life, Breaking sweet slumbers with as sweet release. They may not wake again! But from the precious soil, Born of their toil — Nursed with what crimson rain — We pluck to-day the snow-white flower of peace. He does not die, who in a noble cause Renders his life: immortal as the laws By which God rules the universe is he. Silence his name may hold, His fame untold In all the annals of earth's great may be, But, bounded by no span Of years which rounds the common lot of man, Lo! he is one Henceforward, with the work which he has done, Whose meed and measure is Eternity. They are not lost to us, they still are ours, They do but rest. Cover their graves with flowers— Earth's fairest treasures, fashioned with that skill, Which makes the daisy's disk a miracle No less than man. On monument and urn, Let their rich fragrance burn, Like incense on an altar; softly spread A royal mantle o'er each unmarked bed, And, as a jeweled-rain, Drop their bright petals for the nameless dead And lonely, scattered wide On plain and mountain-side, Beneath the wave, and by the river-tide. So let them rest Upon their country's breast. They have not died in vain: Through them she lives, with head no longer bowed Among the nations, but erect and proud — Washed clean of wrong and shame, Her freedom never more an empty name, And all her scattered stars as one again.
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