The Bugle. N a glittering glory of diamond dew, IN Where the tall white headstones gleam in a row, By the ivied church, Memorial Day, With sheaves of lilies the mourners go. All but one, and she sits alone, A sad-eyed woman with locks of gray, And keeps a tryst of the vanished years With the dear, dead lover who marched away. Her whitened tresses were brown and bright, The bugle called in the sunlit morn, Bayonets glistened, and flags were gay, He turned to wave her a loud adieu, – The brave young lover who marched away. To the silent city above the town, With garlands laden, yet still they pass, But she seeth only a curly head And a broken sword in the trampled grass. THE BUGLE. She weaveth a wreath of heliotrope, That is mute with rust in the mouldered hand The flowers have fallen about her feet, Its silvery melody leads her on, Till far in a world of fadeless May She plights the troth of her youth again With the handsome lover who marched away. There was never a shot that screamed and fell, By desolate hearths, alone and gray, And the soldier lover who marched away. -Minna Irving. Salute the Flag. FF with your hat as the flag goes by! OFF And let the heart have its say: You're man enough for a tear in your eye You're man enough for a thrill that goes To your very finger-tips Ay! the lump just then in your throat that rose Spoke more than your parted lips. Lift up the boy on your shoulder high, Those stripes would be red as the sunset sky Off with your hat as the flag goes by! -H. C. Bunner. WAR. I Mar. AM War. The upturned eyeballs of piled dead men greet my eye, And the sons of mothers perish, — and I laugh to see them die, Mine the demon lust for torture, mine the devil lust for pain, And there is to me no beauty like the pale brows of the slain ! But my voice calls forth the godlike from the sluggish souls at ease, And the hands that toyed with ledgers scatter thunders 'round the seas; And the lolling idler, wakening, measures up to God's own plan, And the puling trifler greatens to the stature of a man. When I speak, the centuried towers of old cities melt in smoke, And the fortressed ports sink reeling at my far-aimed thunder-stroke; And an immemorial empire flings its last flag to the breeze, Sinking with its splintered navies down in the unpity ing seas. But the blind of sight awaken to an unimagined day, And the mean of soul grow conscious there is greatness in their clay; Where my bugle voice goes pealing slaves grow heroes at its breath, And the trembling coward rushes to the welcome arms of death. Pagan, heathen and inhuman, devilish as the heart of hell, Wild as chaos, strong for ruin, clothed in hate unspeakable, -- So they call me, - and I care not,- still I work my waste afar, Heeding not your weeping mothers and your widows -I am War! But your soft-boned men grow heroes when my flaming eyes they see, And I teach your little people how supremely great they be; Yea, I tell them of the wideness of the soul's unfolded plan And the godlike stuff that's moulded in the making of a man. Ah, the godlike stuff that's moulded in the making of a man! |