Исполненная по случаю украшения Могил Солдат Конфедерации на кладбище «Магнолия», Чарлстон, Южная Каролина. 16 Июня, 1866 года.
Герои, спите. Сладкий сон
Убогим кладбищем храним:
Сюда, убранством восхищён,
Не ступит пилигрим.
Венец упал, чтоб в землю лечь…
В его ростках – их торжество!
И где-то, воткнут в камень, меч
Ждёт часа своего.
Пока же, в годы неудач
(Боль нашей вере только впрок),
Вам сёстры свой подарят плач
И памятный венок.
Дар мал. Но вспомните о нём
С улыбкой, с гордостью, когда
Другой отряд, разя огнём,
Пожалует сюда.
Придите, Ангелы! Он свят,
Пустой клочок земли сырой,
Земли, в которой спит отряд,
Увенчанный зарёй.
Ode
BY HENRY TIMROD
(Вариант из The Treasury of American Poetry (by Nancy Sullivan, 1978))
Sung at the Occasion of Decorating the Graves of the Confederate Dead, at Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S. C., June 16, 1866
Sleep sweetly in your humble graves,
Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause;
Though yet no marble column craves
The pilgrim here to pause.
In seeds of laurels in the earth,
The blossom of your fame is blown
And somewhere, waiting for its birth,
The shaft is in the stone.
Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years
Which keep in trust your storied tombs,
Behold! Your sisters bring their tears,
And these memorial blooms.
Small tributes! but your shades will smile
More proudly on these wreaths today,
Than when some cannon-molded pile
Shall overlook this bay.
Stoop, angels, hither from the skies!
There is no holier spot of ground,
Than where defeated valor lies,
By mourning beauty crowned!
Ode
BY HENRY TIMROD
(Вариант из The Collected Poems of Henry Timrod (1965))
Sung on the occasion of decorating the graves of the Confederate dead, at Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S. C., 1866
Sleep sweetly in your humble graves,
Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause!—
Though yet no marble column craves
The pilgrim here to pause.
In seeds of laurels in the earth,
The garlands of your fame are sown;
And, somewhere, waiting for its birth,
The shaft is in the stone.
Meanwhile, your sisters for the years
Which hold in trust your storied tombs,
Bring all they now can give you—tears,
And these memorial blooms.
Small tributes, but your shades will smile
As proudly on these wreaths to-day,
As when some cannon-moulded pile
Shall overlook this Bay.
Stoop, angels, hither from the skies!
There is no holier spot of ground,
Than where defeated valor lies
By mourning beauty crowned.