Behold--where the conflict was doubtful and dire--
There--on house-top and hill-top, on fortress and spire--
The Old Banner waves again higher and prouder,
Though torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder.
God bless the brave soldiers that followed that flag
Through river and swamp, over mountain and crag--
On the wild charge triumphant--the sullen retreat--
On fields spread with victory or piled with defeat;
God bless their true hearts for they stood like a wall,
And saved us our Country and saved us our all.
But many a mother and many a daughter
Weep, alas, o'er the brave that went down in the slaughter.
Pile the monuments high--not on hill-top and plain--
To the glorious sons 'neath the old banner slain--
But over the land from the sea to the sea--
Pile their monuments high in the hearts of the Free.
Heaven bless the brave souls that are spared to return
Where the "lamp in the window" ceased never to burn--
Where the vacant chair stood at the desolate hearth
Since the son shouldered arms or the father went forth.
"Peace!--Peace!"--was the shout;--at the jubilant word
Wives and mothers went down on their knees to the Lord!
Methinks I can see, through the vista of years--
From the memories of old such a vision appears--
A gray-haired old veteran in arm-chair at ease,
With his grandchildren clustered intent at his knees,
Recounting his deeds with an eloquent tongue,
And a fire that enkindles the hearts of the young;
How he followed the Flag from the first to the last--
On the long, weary march, in the battle's hot blast;
How he marched under Sherman from center to sea,
Or fought under Grant in his battles with Lee;
And the old fire comes back to his eye as of yore,
And his iron hand clutches his musket once more,
As of old on the battle-field ghastly and red,
When he sprang to the charge o'er the dying and dead;
And the eyes of his listeners are gleaming with fire,
As he points to that Flag floating high on the spire.
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