The grand divisions falling into line And forming, under voice of One alone, Who gives command, and joins with tongue divine The hymn that shakes the Throne. IV And thus, in tribute to the forms that rest In their last camping-ground, we strew the bloom And fragrance of the flowers they loved the best, In silence o’er the tomb. With reverent hands we twine the Hero’s wreath And clasp it tenderly on stake or stone That stands the sentinel for each beneath Whose glory is our own. While in the violet that greets the sun, We see the azure eye of some lost boy; And in the rose the ruddy cheek of one We kissed in childish joy,— Recalling, haply, when he marched away, He laughed his loudest though his eyes were wet.— The kiss he gave his mother’s brow that day Is there and burning yet: And through the storm of grief around her tossed, One ray of saddest comfort she may see,— Four hundred thousand sons like hers were lost To weeping Liberty. ... But draw aside the drapery of gloom, And let the sunshine chase the clouds away And gild with brighter glory every tomb We decorate to-day: And in the holy silence reigning round, While prayers of perfume bless the atmosphere, Where loyal souls of love and faith are found, Thank God that Peace is here! And let each angry impulse that may start, Be smothered out of every loyal breast; And, rocked within the cradle of the heart, Let every sorrow rest. UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE Up and down old Brandywine, In the days ’at’s past and gone— With a dad-burn hook-and-line And a saplin’-pole—i swawn! I’ve had more fun, to the square Inch, than ever _any_where! Heaven to come can’t discount _mine_, Up and down old Brandywine! Hain’t no sense in _wishin’_—yit Wisht to goodness I _could_ jes “Gee” the blame’ world round and git Back to that old happiness!— Kindo’ drive back in the shade “The old Covered Bridge” there laid ’Crosst the crick, and sorto’ soak My soul over, hub and spoke! Honest, now!—it hain’t no _dream_ ’At I’m wantin’,—but _the fac’s_ As they wuz; the same old stream, And the same old times, i jacks!— Gimme back my bare feet—and Stonebruise too!—And scratched and tanned!— And let hottest dog-days shine Up and down old Brandywine! In and on betwixt the trees ’Long the banks, pour down yer noon, Kindo’ curdled with the breeze And the yallerhammer’s tune; And the smokin’, chokin’ dust O’ the turnpike at its wusst— _Saturd’ys_, say, when it seems Road’s jes jammed with country teams!