Furl that Banner--furl it sadly; Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, And ten thousands wildly, madly, Swore it should forever wave-- Swore that foeman's sword could never Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, And that flag should float forever O'er their freedom or their grave! Furl it! for the hands that grasped it, And the hearts that fondly clasped it, Cold and dead are lying low; And the Banner--it is trailing, While around it sounds the wailing Of its people in their woe. For, though conquered, they adore it-- Love the cold, dead hands that bore it! Weep for those who fell before it! Pardon those who trailed and tore it! But, oh, wildly they deplore it, Now who furl and fold it so! Furl that Banner! True, 'tis gory, Yet, 'tis wreathed around with glory, And 'twill live in song and story Though its folds are in the dust! For its fame on brightest pages, Penned by poets and by sages, Shall go sounding down the ages-- Furl its folds though now we must. Furl that Banner, softly, slowly; Treat it gently--it is holy, For it droops above the dead; Touch it not--unfold it never; Let it droop there, furled forever,-- For its people's hopes are fled. ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN. DEATH OF GRANT AS one by one withdraw the lofty actors From that great play on history's stage eternal, That lurid, partial act of war and peace--of old and new contending, Fought out through wrath, fears, dark dismays, and many a long suspense; All past--and since, in countless graves receding, mellowing Victor and vanquished--Lincoln's and Lee's--now thou with them, Man of the mighty day--and equal to the day! Thou from the prairies?--and tangled and many veined and hard has been thy part, To admiration has it been enacted! WALT WHITMAN. The humblest soldier who carried a musket is entitled to as much credit for the results of the war as those who were in command. U. S. GRANT. [Illustration: U. S. GRANT.] ROBERT E. LEE A GALLANT foeman in the fight, A brother when the fight was o'er, The hand that led the host with might The blessed torch of learning bore. No shriek of shells nor roll of drums, No challenge fierce, resounding far, When reconciling wisdom comes To heal the cruel wounds of war. Thought may the minds of men divide, Love makes the heart of nations one, And so, thy soldier grave beside, We honor thee, Virginia's son. JULIA WARD HOWE. [Illustration: ROBERT E. LEE.] OLD GLORY ON THE ISLAND