What mystery of power To fill the mind with visions such as these Lies in this scentless flower? ’Tis three and twenty years this very June, Since first it opened to the southern noon And swung in languor to a southern breeze; And on the stalwart breast Of one that wore the blue, while yet in bloom, ’Twas set in gallant jest; In the long march’s dust it drooped its head And in the smoke of Gettysburg lay dead, With many a life more precious finding doom. Beside a farmer’s home In shade and shine this rose of battle grew, What time the rolling drum Announced the crisis of the war at hand, As Meade pressed swiftly north through Maryland, And ever closer to Lee’s columns drew; On that grim, weary march Rain seldom fell; the June sun fiercely glowed And seemed all things to parch; The winds grew still, nor in their motion swung The dust that round the lithe battalions clung For miles, on many a winding country road. The women stood in groups And watched with tear-wet eyes and smiling lips The marching of the troops; The smiles came at the sight of manhood stern Moving to sacrifice with unconcern; The tears were for the battle’s drear eclipse That was so soon to fall On many a home where then the sunshine slept-- The shadow of a pall; And though their hopes went with the stripes and stars, Or lingered far away with stars and bars, Yet they were women still--and smiled and wept! And where this rosebud lush Had blossomed into innocence and peace Upon its modest bush, A column halted for a rest at noon And the tired soldiers, glad of such a boon, Flung knapsacks off, stacked arms, and took their ease. And there to one that quaffed From the deep farmhouse well, with careless zest, A luscious draught, A fair girl said, scorn lurking round her mouth: “Dare these men meet the veterans of the South?” Half earnestly she spoke, and half in jest. The soldier’s serious eyes An instant flashed, and then grew soft again, While yet the quick surprise Was flushing his bronzed cheek; but he was born To reverence womanhood, and not to scorn; And so disdained to wound her with disdain. He spoke with quiet grace In even tones, a smile both quaint and grave Upon his firm, strong face: “To wear in the next battle give to me A rose,” he said, “and then the rose will see!” In sobered mood she plucked this flower and gave. It seems another age When things like these were done; the rose’s bloom He took as battle gage, And with his laughing comrades went his way, Well knowing that the columns wide astray Were fast converging for the day of doom!