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.

field_cross

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.