Poems (Hazlett-Bevis)/Our Warrior Dead

by Sophia Courtoulde Hazlett-Bevis

Our Warrior Dead.

Gird on your armor, but not as of old,
 Hastening to enter the fray,
But with loving thoughts of the brave and bold,
 Who rest, all along life's way;
Buckle your sword with a trembling hand,
 Don your old coat of blue,
Scatter sweet blossoms all over the land,
 On the graves of our boys, so true.

Fling to the winds, our starry flag,
 Wave it with tearful eye;
Tender the thoughts of the faded rag,
 That floated 'neath Southern sky.
Hand in hand, let the flowers fall,
 On the blue and the gray, alike;
No difference make, o'er one and all,
 As your guns you gently spike.

Think if a smile, on the dear, dead face,
 Hovers not 'round the pale lips;
Perhaps they may hear in this sacred place,
 The sound of the bugle tips;
The roll of the drum may reach their ears—
 Who knows? We cannot tell.
They lie so still! Let fall your tears,
 O'er the graves and the flowers, as well.

Brave soldier dead, may our presence speak
 Of the tender memories borne
Of thee, while with bowed head meek,
 We greet on this May day morn.
Flowers of Hope, and Peace, and Trust,
 We lay them at thy feet,
Humble offerings to the dust
 Of a sacrifice so complete.

So gather them in, all the beautiful flowers,
 Prepare them with kind, loving hand;
Scatter them wide o'er these graves of ours—
 Our boys, all over the land.
Sacred the trust to us hath been given,
 Keep it with prayerful heart;
Sometime, we know the hearts now riven
 Will join, with a never-to-part.