"STACK ARMS!" I've gladly heard the cry
When, weary with the dusty tread
Of marching troops, as night drew nigh,
I sank upon my soldier bed,
And calmly slept; the starry dome
Of heaven's blue arch my canopy,
And mingled with my dreams of home
The thoughts of Peace and Liberty.
"Stack Arms!" I've heard it when the shout
Exulting ran along our line,
Of foes hurled back in bloody rout,
Captured, dispersed; its tones divine
Then came to mine enraptured ear,
Guerdon of duty nobly done,
And glistened on my cheek the tear
Of grateful joy for victory won.
The Dungeon shuts its cankered jaws,
And clasps its cankered chain;
For thy free spirit walks abroad,
And every pulse is stirred
With the old deathless glory thrill,
Whene'er thy name is heard.
Proud consciousness of quenchless powersA Past whose memory makes us thrill Futures uncharactered, to fill With heroisms - if we will.
Then courage, brothers!-Though each breast
Feel oft the rankling thorn, despair,
That failure plants so sharply there -
No pain, no pang shall be confest:
We'll work and watch the brightening west,
And leave to God and Heaven the rest.
MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON.
FURL that Banner, for 't is weary;
Round its staff 't is drooping dreary;
Furl it, fold it - it is best;
For there's not a man to wave it,
And there's not a sword to save it,
And there's not one left to lave it
In the blood which heroes gave it;
And its foes now scorn and brave it;
Furl it, hide it- let it rest!
Take that Banner down! 't is tattered;
Broken is its staff and shattered,
And the valiant hosts are scattered
Over whom it floated high.
Oh, 't is 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 thousands hailed it gladly,
And ten thousands wildly, madly
Swore it should forever wave
Swore that foeman's sword should never
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever,
And 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; And that Banner - it is trailing, While around it sounds the wailing
Of its people in their woe;
For, though conquered, they adore it Love the cold, dead hands that bore it! Weep for those who fell before it! Pardon those who trailed and tore it! But, oh, wildly they deplore it,
Now who furl and fold it so!
Furl that Banner! True, 't is gory, Yet 't is wreathed around with glory, And 't will 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 fled.
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