My heart is filled with anguish, deep and vast;
My hopes are buried with my children's dust;
My joys have fled, my tears are flowing fast
In whom save thee, our Father, shall I trust?
Ah! I forgot thee, Father, long and oft,
When I was happy, rich and proud and free;
But, conquered now and crushed, I look aloft,
And sorrow leads me, Father, back to thee.

Amid the wrecks that mark the foeman's path
I kneel, and, wailing o'er my glories gone,
I still each thought of hate, each throb of wrath,
And whisper, Father, let thy will be done.
Pity me, Father of the desolate.
Alas, my burdens are so hard to bear;
Look down in mercy on my wretched fate,
And keep me, guard me, with thy loving care.

Pity me, Father, for His holy sake
Whose broken heart bled at the feet of grief
That hearts of earth, wherever they shall break,
Might go to his and find a sure relief.
Ah me, how dark! Is this a brief eclipse?
Or is it night, with no to-morrow's sun ?
O Father! Father! with my pale, sad lips
And sadder heart, I pray, Thy will be done.

My homes are joyless; and a million mourn,
Where many met, in joys forever flown;
Whose hearts are light, are burdened now and lore;
Where many smiled, but one is left to mourn.
And, ah, the widow's wails, the orphan's cries,
Are morning hymn and vesper chant to me;
And groans of men and sounds of women's signs
Commingle, Father, with my prayer to thee.

Beneath my feet, ten thousand children dead!—
Oh, how I loved each known and nameless one!
Above their dust I bow my crownless head
And murmur, Father, still thy will be done.
Ah. Father, thou didst deck my own loved land
With all bright charms and beautiful and fair;
But the foeman came and, with ruthless hand,
Spread ruin, wreck, and desolation there.

Girdled with gloom of all my brightness Shorn,
And garmented with grief, l kiss thy rod,
And turn my face, with tears all wet and worn,
To catch one smile of pity from my God.
Around me blight, where all was bloom;
And so much lost, alas, and nothing won --
Save this that I can lean on wreck and tomb.
And weep and, weeping, pray, Thy will be done.

And, oh, 'tis hard to say, but said, 'tis sweet;
The words are bitter, but they hold a balm,
balm that heals the wounds of my defeat
And lulls my sorrows into holy calm.
lt is the prayer of prayers - and bow it brings,
When heard in heaven, peace and hope to me!
When Jesus prayed it, did not angels' wings
Gleam 'mid the darkness of Gethsemane.

My children, Father, thy forgiveness need—
Alas, their hearts have only room for tears—
Forgive them, Father, every wrongful deed,
And every sin of those four bloody years.
And give them strength to bear their boundless loss,
And from their hearts take every thought of hate;
And, while they climb their Calvary with their cross,
O help them, Father, to endure its weight.

And for my dead, Father may I pray?
Ah, sighs may soothe, but prayer shall soothe me more.
I keep eternal watch above their clay—
O rest their souls, my Father, I implore.
Forgive my foes—they know not what they do—
Forgive them all the tears they made me shed;
Forgive them, though my noblest sons they slew,
And bless them, though they curse my poor, dear dead.

O may my woes be each a carrier dove,
With swift, white wings, that, bathing in my tears,
Will bear thee, Father, all my prayers of love,
And bring me peace, in all my doubts and fears.
Father, I kneel, ‘mid ruin, wreck, and grave—
A desert waste where all was erst so fair—
And, for my children and my foes, I crave
Pity and pardon: Father, hear my prayer.

Ah! fearless on many a day for us,
They stood in front of the fray for us,
And held the foeman at bay for us;
And tears should fall
Fore'er o'er all
Who fell while wearing the Gray for us.

How many a glorious name for us,
How many a story of fame for us
They left: Would it not be a blame for us
If their memories part
From our land and heart,
And a wrong to them, and shame for us?

No, no, no, they were brave for us,
And bright were the lives they gave for us;
The land they struggled to save for us
Will not forget
Its warriors yet
Who sleep in so many a grave for us.

On many and many a plain for us
Their blood poured down all in vain for us,
Red, rich, and pure, like a rain for us;
They bleed -- we weep,
We live -- they sleep,
All lost, -- the only refrain for us.

But their memories e'er shall remain for us,
And their names, bright names, without stain for us;
The glory they won shall not wane for us,
In legend and lay
Our heroes in Gray
Shall forever live over again for us.

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 thousand hailed it gladly,
And ten thousands, wildly, madly,
Swore it should forever wave;
Swore that foreman’s sword should never
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever,
Till 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,-

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 dead!

Out of its Scabbard, where, full long,
It slumbered peacefully,
Roused from its rest by the battle's song,
Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong,
Guarding the right, avenging the wrong,
Gleamed the sword of Lee

Forth from its scabbard, high in air
Beneath Virginia's sky -
And they who saw it gleaming there,
And knew who bore it, knelt to swear
That where the sword led they would dare
To follow - and to die!

Out of it's scabbard! Never hand
Waved sword from stain as free,
Nor purer sword led braver band,
Nor braver bled for a brighter land,
Nor brighter land had a cause so grand,
Nor cause a chief like Lee!

Forth from its scabbard! How we prayed
That sword might victor be;
And when our triumph was delayed,
And many a heart grew sore afraid,
We still hoped on while gleamed the blade
Of noble Robert Lee!

Forth from its scabbard all in vain
Bright flashed the sword of Lee:
'Tis shrouded now in its sheath again,
It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain,
Defeated, yet without a stain,
Proudly and peacefully!

"NOCTURNE"

How often have I seen pictures
Framed in the firelight's blaze,
Of hearts, of names and of faces
And scenes of remembered days!

How often have I found poems
In the crimson of the coals,
And the swaying flames of the firelight
Unrolled such golden scrolls

And my eyes, they were proud to read them,
In letters of living flame,
But tonight, in the fire, I see only
One Heart, one Face, and one Name.

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