THE BLUE AND THE GRAY by Francis Miles Finch (1827-1907)
By the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, Asleep are the ranks of the dead: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Under the one, the Blue, Under the other, the Gray. These in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat, All with the battle-blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day, Under the laurel, the Blue, Under the willow, the Gray. 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; The 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.
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Last modified 18-April-2001