Syringas.

The smallest flower beside my path,         In loveliness of bloom,     Some element of comfort hath         To rid my heart of gloom;     But these, of spotless purity,         And fragrant as the rose,     As sad a sight recall to me         As time shall e'er disclose.     Oh, there are pictures on the brain         Sometimes by shadows made,     Till dust is blent with dust again,         That never, never fade;     And things supremely bright and fair         As ever known in life     Suggest the darkness of despair,         And sanguinary strife.     I shut my eyes; 'tis all in vain -         The battle-field appears,     And one among the thousands slain         In manhood's brilliant years;     An elbow pillowing his head,         And on the crimson sand     Syringa-blooms, distained and dead,         Within his rigid hand.     Could she foresee, who from the stem         Had plucked that little spray     Of flowers, that he would cherish them         Unto his dying day?     "Give these to M -    - ; - 'tis almost night -         And tell her - that - I love - "     Alas! the letter he would write         Was finished up above.     And so, with each recurring spring,         On Decoration day,     When to our heroes' graves we bring         The blossom-wealth of May,     While martial strains are soft and low,         And music seems a prayer,     Unto a hallowed spot I go,         And leave syringas there.