Furl that Banner, for ’t is weary;
Round its staff ’t is 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 and brave it:
Furl it, hide it,—let it rest!
-
-
I wish I were the little key
That locks Love’s Captive in,
And lets Him out to go and free
A sinful heart from sin.I wish I were the little bell
That tinkles for the Host,
When God comes down each day to dwell
With hearts He loves the most.I wish I were the chalice fair,
That holds the Blood of Love,... -
Furl that Banner, for ’t is weary;
...
Round its staff ’t is 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 and brave it:
Furl it, hide it,—let it rest! -
From “Sentinel Songs”
THE FALLEN cause still waits,—
Its bard has not come yet,
His song—through one of to-morrow’s gates
Shall shine—but never set.But when he comes—he ’ll sweep
A harp with tears all stringed,
And the very notes he strikes will weep,
As they come, from his hand, woe-winged.Ah! grand shall be...
-
When falls the soldier brave
Dead—at the feet of wrong,—
The poet sings, and guards his grave
With sentinels of song.Songs, march! he gives command,
Keep faithful watch and true;
The living and dead of the Conquered Land
Have now no guards save you.Grave Ballads! mark ye well!
Thrice holy is your trust!...