And does Columbia love _her_ dead?--
No word of praise or honor can be said,
No language has been given to our race,
No monument has majesty or grace,
No music, filling with weird sweets the air,
No maid or matron eloquently fair,
Naught that can feeling to expression wed,
May say how well we love our soldier dead.
If in those days when self was all above,
Men loved so well ere they were taught to love,
What deep affection may be felt and seen
From hearts taught by the love-crowned Nazarene!
[Illustration: "WHEN A MAN THROWS THE TREASURES OF HIS LIFE."]
The narrow Tiber creeps through Cæsar's Rome,
The broad Potomac laves our chieftain's home;
The cascades of the Grecians murmur still,
Niagara thunders o'er the Western hill.
So seems it, in this era of heart-lore,
As if our love transcended all before.
In this republic--Giant of Free Lands,
Holding apart the oceans with strong hands--
Has through these years in massive quiet flown
A tide of tender heart-love for its own.
When swirling floods rush through the meadows fair,
And turn them into valleys of despair,
A flood of love sweeps o'er the prosperous hills,
And brings them aid to cure their sudden ills.
When the red fire-king holds his crimson court,
And ruins homes to sate his fiendish sport,
There speeds a flame of pity through the land,
Which opens wide the generous heart and hand.
Love for the worthy living, our hearts' guide;
Love for the worthy dead, his dark-veiled bride.
Love for the living martyrs of the land,
And garlands for the dead, go hand in hand.
So, while we deck the brave ones that are gone,
Our hearts for those who live, beat truly on.
When a man throws the treasures of his life
Into the Land's fierce, self-preserving strife,
Let him be sure, in the world's battles grim,
When war is o'er, the Land will fight for him!
So shall God's blessing mingle with these flowers,
And love of dead and living both be ours;
And benedictions on our hearts be shed;
For they are living, whom we mourn as dead!
[Illustration]