  By Abram J. Ryan. [This poem appeared very soon after the surrender of the Confederate armies, and was probably the first, as it is the finest, poetical expression of reverent regret for the Lost Cause, without any touch of bitterness in its loss. The author was a Catholic priest, who wrote a number of poems of merit, though none that appealed so strongly as this one does to the generous sympathy of the victor with the sorrow of the vanquished. The author was born in Norfolk, Va., August 15, 1839, and died in Louisville, Ky., April 22, 1886.—Editor.] Banner The Conquered Banner THE CONQUERED BANNER. F Furl that Banner, for ’tis weary, Round its staff ’tis drooping dreary: Furl it, fold it,—it is best; For there’s not a man to wave it, And there’s not a sword to save it, And there’s not one left to lave it In the blood which heroes gave it, Take the Banner down! ’tis tattered; Broken is its staff and shattered, And the valiant hosts are scattered Over whom it floated high. Oh, ’tis hard for us to fold it, Hard to think there’s none to hold it, Hard that those who once unrolled it Now must furl it with a sigh! Furl that Banner—furl it sadly; Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, And ten thousands wildly, madly Swore it should forever wave— Swore that foemen’s sword could never Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, And that flag should float forever O’er their freedom, or their grave! Furl it!—for the hands that grasped it, And the hearts that fondly clasped it, Cold and dead are lying low; And the Banner—it is trailing, While around it sounds the wailing, Of its people in their woe; For though conquered, they adore it— Love the cold dead hands that bore it, Weep for those who fell before it, Pardon those who trailed and tore it; And, oh, wildly they deplore it, Now to furl and fold it so! Furl that Banner! True, ’tis gory, Yet ’tis wreathed around with glory, And ’twill live in song and story Though its folds are in the dust! For its fame on brightest pages, Penned by poets and by sages, Shall go sounding down the ages— Furl its folds though now we must! Furl that Banner, softly, slowly; Treat it gently—it is holy, For it droops above the dead; Touch it not—unfold it never; Let it droop there, furled forever,— For its people’s hopes are fled. [Southern.] Banner
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