Aye, Bring the Fadeless Evergreens

A YE , bring the fadeless evergreens, the laurel and the bay,
A grateful land remembers all her promises to-day;
And hearts that gave their treasures up when manhood was the price
Now bring their sweetest offerings and bless the sacrifice.
It is no soulless pageantry o'er half forgotten deeds
That draws from painted history the spirit of its meeds!
In the pale and anxious faces that gather in the crowd
Is found the brave sad story of the conquest and the shroud.

Aye, bring the fadeless evergreens, the laurel and the bay;
They serve a nobler purpose now than under Roman sway;
We'll twine them for our heroes with the cypress and the yew,
And weave them into garlands with the rosemary and rue.
The emblems of the conqueror, the emblems of the dead,
Shall rest, a silent homily, above each sleeping head;
While victory is whispering of battles nobly won,
And peace runs after sorrow with her touching, tender tone.

Aye, bring the queen of flowers — the roses red and white —
Though we name no haughty Lancaster or York devoted knight,
We sing of grander deeds to-day, of greater battles won,
Of freemen wrapped in Freedom's flag when Freedom's work was done.
Aye, strew the dew-wet roses — each liquid drop a tear
From eyes grown dim with weeping above the soldier's bier, —
For as their dying fragrance fills all the summer morn,
So from the tomb of patriots is heroism born.

Aye, bring the pale white flowers, fresh and sweet to look upon —
There are no purer symbols of the noble spirits gone —
The fragrance floating from them comes to gladden us to-day,
Like memories of cherished friends forever passed away.
Aye, bring the stately flowers — the haughty fleur de lis ,
For never was it emblem of a truer royalty;
To-day its crested head above a private's grave may toss,
And yet no braver he who wore the helmet and the cross.

Aye, come with flying banners and with stately martial tread!
With muffled drums and music gather 'round the honored dead!
And thus, with bowed heads standing, while we watch the maidens come
To strew our humble offerings on every sacred tomb —
And while the fires of sorrow burn in many a tearless eye,
And hearts less used to grief bow down in speechless agony; —
Oh, will not then this earnest prayer arise to every tongue,
" God give to us such men as these, whatever trials come! "
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