IN MEMORY OF THE FALLEN By Luella Curran

Remember the Fallen

Remember the Fallen

IN MEMORY! By Luella Curran

Bring ye blossoms of the May,
For the brave beloved dead;
Tender memories rise to-day
O’er each fallen hero’s bed.

Wave the starry symbol dear,
They so loved and died to save,
O’er their rest, let memory’s tear
Consecrate the patriot’s grave.

Peace, fair child of victory,
Twines the olive with the palm—
Wed for them eternally,
Of their noble wounds the balm.

Thou, their country, proud and free,
Grateful bow thy star-crowned head;
They who shape thy destiny
Thrill at thy majestic tread!

Bring ye blossoms of the May,
Strew each humble soldier’s grave;
Liberty shall kneel to-day.
Honoring the true and brave.

Published in Good Housekeeping 1895.

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Field Cross

 

MEMORY’S WREATH by George B. Griffith

memorial-day2Memorial or Remembrance Day was originally began to honor the dead of the War between the States.

 

 

 

MEMORY’S WREATH

Memory’s wreath of white and red,
Of purest blue and green is spread,
Today, above the patriot dead,
In songs and story blest;
Nor do we grudge the fairest flowers
That oped and bloomed ‘neath Southern showers.
On this Memorial Day of ours,
Laid where the foemen rest.

For Peace has silenced bitter Hate,
The blue and gray together mate,
And by each other’s hearths have sate
Since the long strife was o’er.
Thank God for this! and from this day
May love and prayer keep clear the way,
And make us one in heart for aye—
One country evermore!

It was a woman’s tender thought;
Her slender hand the first wreath wrought,
And she a grateful Nation taught
To garland thus the dead;
So long as gallant knight shall ride
To win by valor lovely bride,
And music stirs the true and tried,
Shall this of her be said!

And when we vaunt of greatest fray.
We’ll ne’er forget that far away
Our wives and mothers prayed each day,
In safety God would keep
The soldier clad in gray or blue.
As comes Memorial Day anew
Let woman’s hand the flowers strew
Where battle heroes lie.
-George B. Griffith in Christian at Work.

THE PATRIOTS REMEMBRANCES ON DECORATION (Memorial) DAY 1895

The Patriots Remembrances On Decoration Day, May 30, 1895

“Those were days ever to be remembered, when strong men stood in their fields and wept.”—H. Butlerworth.

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Sweet spring is in the air, good wife,
Bluer sky appears;
The robin sings the welcome note
He sung in other years.
Twelve times the spring has oped the rills,
Twelve times has autumn sighed
Since hung the war clouds o’er the hills
The year that Lincoln died.

The March wind early left the zone
For distant northern seas,
And wandering airs of gentle tone
Came to the door-yard trees;
And sadness in the dewy hours
Her reign extended wide
When spring retouched the hill with flowers
The year that Lincoln died.

We used to sit and talk of him,
Our long, long absent son;
We’d two to love us then, dear wife,
But now we have but one.
The springs return, the autumns burn,
His grave unknown beside;
They laid him neath the moss and fern
The year that Lincoln died.

One day I was among the flocks
That roamed the April dells,
When floating from the city
Came the sound of many bells,
The towns around caught up the sound,
I climbed the mountain side,
And saw the spires with banners crowned
The year that Lincoln died.

I knew what meant that sweet accord,
That jubilee of bells,
And sang an anthem to the Lord
Amid the pleasant dells.
But when I thought of those so young
That slept the farms beside
In undertones of joy I sung,
The year that Lincoln died.

And when the tidings came, dear wife,
Our soldier boy was dead,
I bowed my trembling knee in prayer,
You bowed your whitened head.
The house was still, the woods were calm.
And while you sobbed and cried
I sang alone the evening psalm
The year that Lincoln died.

I hung his picture ‘neath the shelf,
It still is hanging there;
I laid his ring where you yourself
Had put a curl of hair.
Then to the spot where willows wave
With hapless steps we hied,
And “Charley’s” called an empty grave,
The year that Lincoln died.

The years will come, the years will go,
But never at our door
The fair-haired boy we used to meet
Will smile upon us more.
But memory long will hear the fall
Of steps at eventide,
And every blooming year recall
The year that Lincoln died.

One day I was among the flocks
That roamed the April dells.
When at the noonday hour I heard
A tolling of the bells.
With heavy heart and footsteps slow
I climbed the mountain side
And saw the blue flag hanging low
The year that Lincoln died.

Ah! many a year, ah! many a year
The birds will cross the seas,
And blossoms fall in gentle showers
Beneath the door-yard trees;
And still will tender mothers weep
The soldiers’ grave beside,
And fresh in memory ever keep
The year that Lincoln died.

Where many sow the seed in tears
Shall many reap in joy.
And harvesters in golden years
Shall bless our darling boy.
With happy homes for other eyes
Expands the future wide;
And God will bless our sacrifice
The year that Lincoln died.
Butterworth’s Young Folk’s History of America.