“Furl that banner, for ’tis weary, ’Round its staff ’tis drooping dreary, Furl it, fold it, it is best; For there’s not a man to wave it, And there’s not a sword to save it, And there’s not one left to lave it In the blood which heroes gave it, And its foes now scorn to brave it. Furl it, hide it, let it rest.” I lift the curtain and look again. I see the clouds roll away. The laughter of other days is hushed; the mansions lie in charred and blackened ruins, and there is nothing left but mourning and requiems above a land of desolation and of new-made graves. I see the triumphant armies of the Union, with flags flying and bands playing the martial airs of victory, marching in pomp and splendor through the grand avenues of their cities, amid the plaudits of rejoicing millions, leaving the weak and helpless race they had emancipated as a charge upon their ruined and impoverished masters. I see the remnants of the Confederate armies giving shelter and food and raiment to this helpless race and furnishing them with land and plows and mules, and building school houses and taxing themselves to promote the education of the negro children at their doors. I see the sturdy veterans at work in every department of life, and new cities and towns rising in the track of war, and the devastated South blossoming like the rose. Now a vision of the future opens before me. I see the land of Washington and Jefferson, of Jackson and Polk, of Hill and Gordon again the richest land in all the world, not only in material wealth, but in the wealth of brain and courage and manhood, and in the Cabinet and the Congress, wielding again the destinies of the republic. I see generation after generation weaving garlands of the lily and the rose and hanging them about the monuments of those who wore the gray. I see the North and the South clasping hands in eternal friendship and brotherhood, and Old Glory waving above a united people for a thousand years to come.