From the silence of sorrowful hours
    The desolate mourners go,
  Lovingly laden with flowers
    Alike for the friend and the foe,—­
      Under the sod and the dew,
        Waiting the judgment-day;—­
      Under the roses, the Blue;
        Under the lilies, the Gray.

  So with an equal splendor
    The morning sun-rays fall,
  With a touch, impartially tender,
    On the blossoms blooming for all;—­
      Under the sod and the dew,
        Waiting the judgment-day;—­
      ’Broidered with gold, the Blue;
        Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

  So when the summer calleth,
    On forest and field of grain
  With an equal murmur falleth
    The cooling drip of the rain;—­
      Under the sod and the dew. 
        Waiting the judgment-day;—­
      Wet with the rain, the Blue;
        Wet with the rain, the Gray.

  Sadly, but not with upbraiding,
    The generous deed was done;
  In the storm of the years that are fading,
    No braver battle was won;—­
      Under the sod and the dew,
        Waiting the judgment-day;—­
      Under the blossoms, the Blue;
        Under the garlands, the Gray.

  No more shall the war-cry sever,
    Or the winding rivers be red;
  They banish our anger forever
    When they laurel the graves of our dead! 
      Under the sod and the dew,
        Waiting the judgment-day;—­
      Love and tears for the Blue,
        Tears and love for the Gray.

FRANCIS MILES FINCH.

* * * * *

CENTENNIAL HYMN.

[1876.]

  Our fathers’ God! from out whose hand
  The centuries fall like grains of sand,
  We meet to-day, united, free,
  And loyal to our land and Thee,
  To thank Thee for the era done,
  And trust Thee for the opening one.

  Here, where of old, by Thy design,
  The fathers spake that word of Thine
  Whose echo is the glad refrain
  Of rended bolt and falling chain,
  To grace our festal time, from all
  The zones of earth our guests we call.

  Be with us while the New World greets
  The Old World thronging all its streets,
  Unveiling all the triumphs won
  By art or toil beneath the sun;
  And unto common good ordain
  This rivalship of hand and brain.

  Thou, who hast here in concord furled
  The war flags of a gathered world,
  Beneath our Western skies fulfil
  The Orient’s mission of good-will,
  And, freighted with love’s Golden Fleece,
  Send back its Argonauts of peace.

  For art and labor met in truce,
  For beauty made the bride of use,
  We thank Thee; but, withal, we crave
  The austere virtues strong to save,
  The honor proof to place or gold,
  The manhood never bought nor sold!