Page:The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 17.djvu/404

296 Each hour of the past lends its tribute to this,

Till it blooms like a bower in the Garden of Bliss;

The thorn and the thistle may grow as they will,

Where Friendship unfolds there is Paradise still.

The bird wanders careless while Summer is green,

The leaf-hidden cradle that rocked him unseen;

When Autumn's rude fingers the woods have undressed,

The boughs may look bare, but they show him his nest.

Too precious these moments! the lustre they fling

Is the light of our year, is the gem in its ring,

So brimming with sunshine, we almost forget

The rays it has lost, and its border of jet.

While round us the many-hued halo is shed,

How dear are the living, how near are the dead!

One circle, scarce broken, these waiting below,

Those walking the shores where the asphodels blow!

Not life shall enlarge it, nor death shall divide,—

No brother new-born finds his place at my side;

No titles shall freeze us, no grandeurs infest,—

His Honor, His Worship, are boys like the rest.

Some won the world's homage,—their names we hold dear,—

But Friendship, not Fame, is the countersign here;

Make room by the conqueror crowned in the strife

For the comrade that limps from the battle of life!

What tongue talks of battle? Too long we have heard

In sorrow, in anguish, that terrible word;

It reddened the sunshine, it crimsoned the wave,

It sprinkled our doors with the blood of our brave.

Peace, Peace, comes at last, with her garland of white;

Peace broods in all hearts as we gather to-night;

The blazon of Union spreads full in the sun;

We echo its words,—We are One! We are One!