THE BLUE AND THE GRAY 135

Under the roses, the Blue;
Under the lilies, the Gray.

So, with an equal splendor
The morning sun-rays fall,
With a touch impartially tender,
On the blossoms blooming for all:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the Judgment Day: -
Broidered with gold, the Blue;
Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the summer calleth,
On forest and field of grain,
With an equal murmur falleth
The cooling drip of the rain: -
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the Judgment Day: -
Wet with the rain, the Blue;
Wet with the rain, the Gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding,

The generous deed was done.
In the storms of the years that are fading
No braver battle was won:

Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the Judgment Day: -

Under the blossoms, the Blue;
Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war-cry sever,
Or the winding rivers be red:

They banish our anger forever

When they laurel the graves of our dead!
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the Judgment Day:-
Love and tears for the Blue;

Tears and love for the Gray.

Francis Miles Finch.

AT MAGNOLIA CEMETERY

SLEEP Sweetly in your humble graves
Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause;
Though yet no marble column craves
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!

Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years

Which keep in trust your storied tombs,
Behold! your sisters bring their tears,
And these memorial blooms.

Small tributes! but your shades will smile
More proudly on these wreaths to-day
Than when some cannon-moulded pile
Shall overlook this bay.

Stoop, angels, hither from the skies!
There is no holier spot of ground

Than where defeated valor lies,
By mourning beauty crowned!

Henry Timrod.

SPRING

SPRING

SPRING, with that nameless pathos in the air
Which dwells with all things fair,

Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain,
Is with us once again.

Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns
Its fragrant lamps, and turns

Into a royal court with green festoons
The banks of dark lagoons.

In the deep heart of every forest tree

The blood is all aglee,

And there's a look about the leafless bowers

As if they dreamed of flowers.

Yet still on every side we trace the hand

Of Winter in the land,

Save where the maple reddens on the lawn,

Flushed by the season's dawn;

Or where like those strange semblances we find

That age to childhood bind,

The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn,

The brown of Autumn corn.

And yet the turf is dark, although you know

That, not a span below,

137

A thousand germs are groping through the gloom,

And soon will burst their tomb.

Already, here and there, on frailest stems

Appear some azure gems,

Small as might deck, upon a gala day,

The forehead of a fay.

In gardens you may note amid the dearth,

The crocus breaking earth;

And near the snowdrops tender white and green, The violet in its screen.

But many gleams and shadows needs must pass
Along the budding grass,

And weeks go by, before the enamored South
Shall kiss the rose's mouth.

Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn
In the sweet airs of morn;

One almost looks to see the very street

Grow purple at his feet.

At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by,

And brings, you know not why,

A feeling as when eager crowds await

Before a palace gate

Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start,

If from a beech's heart

A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say, "Behold me! I am May!"

QUATORZAIN

Henry Timrod.

Most men know love but as a part of life;
They hide it in some corner of the breast,

Even from themselves; and only when they rest

In the brief pauses of that daily strife,
Wherewith the world might else be not so rife,
They draw it forth (as one draws forth a toy
To soothe some ardent, kiss-exacting boy)
And hold it up to sister, child, or wife.
Ah me! why may not love and life be one?
Why walk we thus alone, when by our side,
Love, like a visible god, might be our guide?
How would the marts grow noble! and the street,
Worn like a dungeon-floor by weary feet,

Seem then a golden court-way of the Sun!

Henry Timrod.

BOOKRA

As I lay asleep in Italy. - Shelley.

ONE night I lay asleep in Africa,
In a closed garden by the city gate;
A desert horseman, furious and late,
Came wildly thundering at the massive bar,
"Open in Allah's name! Wake, Mustapha!
Slain is the Sultan, treason, war, and hate
Rage from Fez to Tetuan! Open straight."
The watchman heard as thunder from afar:
"Go to! In peace this city lies asleep;

To all-knowing Allah 't is no news you bring;"
Then turned in slumber still his watch to keep.
At once a nightingale began to sing,

In oriental calm the garden lay,

Panic and war postponed another day.

Charles Dudley Warner.