STREW blossoms on their graves, for this is well —
Pale roses and the sweet-lipped violet ;
The pansy, still with tears of memory wet ;
And lilies of the valley, wont to knell
The fairies' requiem in the wooded dell ;
Sad heliotrope and tender mignonette,
Frail tokens that our land doth not forget
The hero sons who for her honor fell.
But O my brothers ! even while ye stoop
These flowers to scatter, be it yours to pay
A better homage. Quit your greed and shame ;
Purge our high places, lest our banner droop,
Soiled by the touch of men less pure than they
Whose loyal blood once cleansed our nation's name.

MANY the lands that the true-hearted honor ;
Many the banners that blow on the sea ;