Be glad and proud you had the life to give-- Be comforted through all the years to come,-- Your country has a longer life to live, Your son a better home. O Widow, weeping o'er the orphaned child, Who only lifts his questioning eyes to send A keener pang to grief unreconciled,-- Teach him to comprehend He had a father brave enough to stand Before the fire of Treason's blazing gun, That, dying, he might will the rich old land Of Freedom to his son. And, Maiden, living on through lonely years In fealty to love's enduring ties,-- With strong faith gleaming through the tender tears That gather in your eyes, Look up! and own, in gratefulness of prayer, Submission to the will of Heaven's High Host:-- I see your Angel-soldier pacing there, Expectant at his post.-- I see the rank and file of armies vast, That muster under one supreme control; I hear the trumpet sound the signal-blast-- The calling of the roll-- 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. SCRAPS There's a habit I have nurtured, From the sentimental time When my life was like a story, And my heart a happy rhyme,-- Of clipping from the paper, Or magazine, perhaps, The idle songs of dreamers, Which I treasure as my scraps. They hide among my letters, And they find a cozy nest In the bosom of my wrapper, And the pockets of my vest; They clamber in my fingers Till my dreams of wealth relapse In fairer dreams than Fortune's Though I find them only scraps.