In Northern blue and Southern brown, Twin coffins and a single grave, They laid the weary warriors down; And hands that strove to slay and save
Had equal rest and like renown. For in the graveyard's hallowed close A woman's love made neutral soil, Where it might lay the forms of those
Who, resting from their fateful broil, Had ceased forever to be foes. To her and those who clung to her — From manly eldest down to least —
The obsequies, the sepulchre, The chanting choir, the weeping priest, And all the throng and all the stir Of sympathetic country-folk,
And all the signs of death and dole, Were but a dream that beat and broke In chilling waves on heart and soul, Till in the silence they awoke.
She was a widow, and she wept; She was a mother, and she smiled; Her faith with those she loved was kept, Though still the war-cry, fierce and wild,
Around the harried country swept. No more with this had she to do; God and her little ones were left; And unto these, serene and true,
She gave the life so soon bereft Of its first gifts, and rose anew At duty's call to make amends For all her loss of loves and lands;
And found, to speed her noble ends, The succor of uplifting hands, And solace of a thousand friends. And o'er her precious graves she built
A stone whereon the yellow boss Of sword on sword with naked hilt Lay as the symbol of her cross, In mournful meaning, carved and gilt.
And underneath were graved the lines:—
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