Ere the flag should shrink to a lost hope’s token, Ere the glow of its glory be low and dim, Ere its stars should fade and its bars be broken, Calling his comrades to come to him. And these, at the order of Hill or Gordon,-- God keep their ashes! I knew them well,-- Would have smashed the ranks of the devil’s cordon, Or charged through the flames that roar in hell. But none could stand where the storm was beating, Never a comrade could reach his side; In the spume of flame where the tides were meeting, He, of a thousand, stood and died. And the foe, in the old heroic manner, Tenderly laid his form to rest, The splintered staff and the riddled banner Hiding the horror upon his breast. * * * * * Gone is the cot in the Georgia wildwood, Gone is the blossom-strangled porch; The roof that sheltered a soldier’s childhood Vainly pleaded with Sherman’s torch. Gone are the years, and far and feeble Ever the old wild echoes die; Hark to the voice of a great, glad people Hailing the one flag under the sky! And the monstrous heart of the storm receding Fainter and farther throbs and jars; And the new storm bursts, and the brave are bleeding Under the cruel alien stars. And Allan’s wife in the grave is lying Under the old scorched vine and pine, While Allan’s child in the isles is dying Far on the foremost fighting line. Cheer for the flag with the old stars spangled! Shake out its folds to the wind’s caress, Over the hearts by the war-hounds mangled, Down in the tangled Wilderness! To wave o’er the grave of the brave forever; For the Gray has sealed, in the bond of blood, His faith to the Blue, and the brave shall never Question the brave in the sight of God. WILL HENRY THOMPSON. (By special permission of the author, and of The Century Company.) 49 A BALLAD OF MANILA BAY Your threats how vain, Corregidor; Your rampired batteries, feared no more; Your frowning guard at Manila gate,-- When our Captain went before! Lights out. Into the unknown gloom From the windy, glimmering, wide sea-room, Challenging fate in that dark strait We dared the hidden doom. But the death in the deep awoke not then; Mine and torpedo they spoke not then; From the heights that loomed on our passing line The thunders broke not then. Safe through the perilous dark we sped, Quiet each ship as the quiet dead, Till the guns of El Fraile roared--too late, And the steel prows forged ahead. Mute each ship as the mute-mouth grave, A ghost leviathan cleaving the wave; But deep in its heart the great fires throb, The travailing engines rave.