AMERICA'S UNKNOWN DEAD: A MONODY.*
[Dedicated to Frances Walton Knight, 1896-1922, the waning strength of whose young life was consecrated upon the altars of the Red Cross, during the Great World War.]
OVEMBER'S musk, along the meadow-ways,
Gives mellow hint of the autumnal days.
The frost-king now, from out the frozen North,
Woo'd by the Indian summer, wanders forth.
The banner'd glories of the woods, unroll'd,
Have softly turn'd to russet and to gold.
And from the loosen'd leaves, now falling fast,
Come farewell sighs, to whisper of the past.
Tow'rd yonder bourn, the eye of Fancy turns,
Where Sorrow sits, above the moldering urns.
With sparkling wine, the Muse of Memory fills
The chalice of the old Potomac hills,
Where, on the slopes, in bivouac's slumber deep,
The Great Republic's silent legions sleep;
Where the soft waters, winding to the sea,
Still pause to greet th' immortal soul of Lee;
Then, hastening to Mount Vernon, murmur on
To meet the waiting shade of Washington.
'Tis the ripe hour when sire recites to son
How Freedom's battle for a world was won,
* On November 11, 1921, three years after the signing of the armistice, there occurred in Washington, D. C., an event of world-wide interest and of singular dramatic power, when an unknown soldier, typical of the great army of America, was laid to rest, with august ceremonies, in the national cemetery, at Arlington. Diplomatic representatives from all the foreign courts and distinguished American officials, including President Harding, with his Cabinet, ex-President Wilson, ChiefJustice Taft, the Associate Justices of the Supreme Court of the United States, Senators and Representatives, soldiers and sailors, marched behind the unknown dead and participated in the solemn exercises incident to his re-interment. The body of the hero was brought back from France for the special purpose of receiving this ovation. Beyond the fact that he was an American soldier, no further clue to his identity can ever be traced. England, France, and Italy had already performed similar rites, each over the ashes of an unknown soldier. But the custom was not a new one, though long unobserved. It originated among the ancient Greeks and was old when Pericles pronounced his oration upon the dead heroes of Marathon.
When, o'er the seas, with Valor's stainless shield, We met the haughty foe, on Flanders' field;Henceforth an hour, whose wealth of war's perfume Is doubly hallow'd by yon soldier's tomb.
When hath the tolling note of funeral knells
Peal'd such a requiem of sad farewells?
When hath a scene of pathos so sublime
Touch'd human hearts, in all the tides of time?
When hath the pulse-beat of a world so throbb'd
Or Sorrow's sea so like an ocean sobb'd?
What a proud scroll this day hath History's pen
Committed to the chronicles of men!
While canvas breathes and burns, its solemn hush
Will consecrate th' inspir'd artist's brush;
While but a syllable of time remains,
Poets will chant it in undying strains;
Sculptors, when many a distant year has flown,
Will turn the stirring story into stone;
Deep mountain glens, far down the century's track,
Will send the glorious echoes rolling back;
For, at this silent hour, a nation's tread
Moves to the burial of the unknown dead.
With banners drap'd the long procession comes
To the deep thunder-roll of muffl'd drums.
Slowly it winds;-the last march has begun
Toward the Silent Hills of Arlington
As if by some magician's weird command,
A hush responsive broods upon the land.
As, soft and low, the notes of music swell,
The furthest hamlet feels the mystic spell.
As, from the belfry-tower, that message peals,
On every highway, pause revolving wheels,
In every factory, spindles cease to turn,—
All pay mute reverence to an honor'd urn.
Illustrious envoys, from the lands afar,
Are proud to walk behind that funeral car.
Along the lanes, o'er which Old Glory floats,
Mingle the colors of imperial courts.
Statesmen and jurists, scholars and divines,
Soldiers and sailors, throng the silent lines.
Foremost among them moves the nation's chief-
His thoughtful face seam'd with the common grief.
Who is that man, with features pale and wan,
Now seen by thousands in the moving van?
Whose trembling figure-ah, what cruel fate!-
Seems bent and broken, with the storms of state?
"Tis Wilson! Recogniz'd, a salvo loud,
Like thunder breaks from the admiring crowd.
'Tis Wilson! He, whose tocsin of alarms
Summon'd the unknown soldier there to arms,-
Himself a casualty of glorious war,
Whose noble breast wears many a knightly scar.
But silence! Let the spoken plaudits cease.
The spirit of the hour whispers "Peace!"
Unknown! But when was such a mountain-mound
E'er rais'd on martial glory's camping-ground?
When did the great of earth e'er deign to pay
Such homage to an unknown soldier's clay?
Or millions, 'mid a continent of gloom,
Follow a nameless hero to his tomb?
When have the sons of Fame, in tribute hours,
Dream'd under such a canopy of flowers?
When did a caravan of kings confer
Such honors on a Caesar's sepulchre?
Or when, beneath Egyptian marbles hid,
Have Pharaohs slept in such a pyramid?
England, symbolic of her sense of loss
Bestows upon him her Victoria Cross-
An honor whose distinguish'd mark before
None but a favorite Briton ever bore.
France gives to him her glorious Croix de Guerre, Struck for her bravest breasts alone to wear.
Italy's gift, a medal of pure gold,
Meet for her warrior-kings in days of old.
Poland awards him her proud Cross of War,
Lit with her radiant resurrection star.
Belgium, from out her ruins, is proud to send
A Cross of Honor to her unknown friend.
Roumania's wreath, from o'er the watery wave,
Is seen to glisten on our hero's grave.
Czecho-Slovak's War Cross, among the rest,
Is laid upon the unknown soldier's breast;
While last-but, O, not least-upon his bier,
Glitters the medal of America!
What shall we carve upon the storied stone?—
Unknown his regiment, his corps unknown;
Bereft of heritage, his very name
Is voiceless in the echoing lists of Fame.
Whether his eyes first open'd to the light
Upon New England's snowy fields of white,
Or if the tender romance of his youth
Was stag'd among the roses of the South,
Is not reveal'd. The oracles are dumb.
No answering voice from yonder lips can come.
But this we know: that, to the bugle's call,
His heart leap'd forth;-he gave and suffer'd all.
Upon immortal pages, white and fair,
His name, in gold, is writ forever there;
While here, upon his country's couch of rest,
Virginia's violets will shield his breast,
Till, on the wing-ed winds of heaven blown,
God's nameless knights to all the hills are known.
But is he quite forgotten now and here-
The boy who slumbers in that unknown bier?
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