The Harvard Regiment

    We saw the Regiment, alert and strong,
        In marching line, on Soldiers' Field today,
    Ah! ready they to battle with the wrong; -
        This flower of youth - eager and brave and gay.

    And we, on-looking, cheered them as they passed,
        And we, down-heartened, prayed a silent prayer,
    Gazing upon them with a grim forecast,
        And many a sad-eyed mother watched them there.

    Proudly they turned, and at attention stood,
        Or shouldered arms while war-like music thrilled.
    "Alas!" we listened in unhappy mood!
        "Why should these boys in martial ways be skilled?"

    No comfort for our grieving was revealed,
        Until we looked across the valiant line
    To the old College, far beyond this Field
        That honors men who fell at Freedom's shrine.

    "Oh, ancient College, that so long hast bred
        Son after son to heed his Country's call.
    The answer to our questionings is read -
        In yonder Tower of your Memorial Hall."

Helen Leah Reed

Helen Leah Reed (1860-1926) was an American author and poet, renowned for her contributions to children's literature and her historical novels. She was an influential literary figure of her time, often remembered for her stories that blended education with entertainment. Reed's works reflected her deep knowledge and interest in history, making her a notable figure in early 20th-century American literature.

Helen Leah Reed

Thomas Wentworth Higginson (In Memory)

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

The Cry Of The Women

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

The Shrieking Woman At Marblehead

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

English

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The Grand Army Passes

    Behold a long procession passing proudly,
    And yet no glittering pomp adorns its way,
    Only the emblems of our States and Nation,
    Only the flags that floated on the day
    These men, our men, trod upon fields of glory; -
    The tattered flags that this Grand Army bore
    For the Republic - flags that furled and faded
    To their old vividness our hearts restore.
    The line of veterans once firm and crowded,
    The long, long line is wavering and thin;
    With faltering steps Old Age speaks mutely to them
    Youth marched abreast when they were mustered in.

    Oh, Comrades of the Campfire and the Council,
    Oh, Comrades who in peril won your fight!
    Honor to you and to your dead companions,
    You risked your all for Liberty and R...

Helen Leah Reed

Memorial Day

    No warrior he, a village lad,
            needing nor words nor other prod
    To point his duty; he was glad
            to tread the path his fathers trod.
    Week days he worked in wood and field;
            with homely joys he decked his life;
    The sword of hate he would not wield,
            nor take a part in cankering strife.
    On Sunday in the little choir
            he sang of Peace and brotherly love,
    And as his thoughts soared higher and higher,
            they reached unmeasured heights above.

    A cry for Freedom rent the Land -
            "Our Country calls, come, come, 'tis War;
    Together let us firmly stand;"
            he answered, though his heart beat sore
    At leaving home, and kin, and one
            i...

Helen Leah Reed

See The Field Of Battle Gleams.

See, the field of battle gleams
Yonward past the tented streams,
There the foe is camping;
By the thirst-assuaging rill,
From the copse behind the hill
Hear his war-steeds champing.

Northern Knights and Southern Sons,
Onward to the gleaming guns!
Now's the hour of battle!
Though his files be ten to one,
Seek the foe from sun to sun,
Where his muskets rattle.

O'er the walls with slaughter wet,
O'er the ball-scarred parapet,
Daring man and missile,
Charge to meet his best or worst,
Where his shrieking bombshells burst
And his bullets whistle.

Roll in waves of living blue,
Pierce the columned centre through,
Fill the world with wonder;
Rush, as with a lion's will,
Where his lightnings flash to kill
And his cann...

A. H. Laidlaw

Lexington

Slowly the mist o'er the meadow was creeping,
Bright on the dewy buds glistened the sun,
When from his couch, while his children were sleeping,
Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun.
Waving her golden veil
Over the silent dale,
Blithe looked the morning on cottage and spire;
Hushed was his parting sigh,
While from his noble eye
Flashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire.

On the smooth green where the fresh leaf is springing
Calmly the first-born of glory have met;
Hark! the death-volley around them is ringing!
Look! with their life-blood the young grass is wet
Faint is the feeble breath,
Murmuring low in death,
"Tell to our sons how their fathers have died;"
Nerveless the iron hand,
Raised for its native land,
Lies by the weapon that ...

Oliver Wendell Holmes

His Monument

    From top to pedestal you scan it lightly -
    Capped head to lettered base - and you are smiling.
    What see you there to set your lips a-quiver?
    An awkward figure cut from ugly granite,
    Aye, roughly hewn, as if unhelped by chisel,
    This peaceful man of war, sculptured grotesquely.
    Still - there is metal in the gun he is holding,
    And in the cannon balls piled up before him -
    The artist's symbols of a real soldier.
    Yet jeer no longer!
    Before you is a soldier of the Union,
    Crowned with the tears and prayers of many mourners.
    The Village set him here for all to honor,
    Here, in the centre of their foot-worn common,
    Where on long, summer evenings boys at baseball
    May gaze and gaze, and make him an example;
 ...

Helen Leah Reed

The Advance-Guard.

In the dream of the Northern poets,
    The braves who in battle die
Fight on in shadowy phalanx
    In the field of the upper sky;
And as we read the sounding rhyme,
    The reverent fancy hears
The ghostly ring of the viewless swords
    And the clash of the spectral spears.

We think with imperious questionings
    Of the brothers whom we have lost,
And we strive to track in death's mystery
    The flight of each valiant ghost.
The Northern myth comes back to us,
    And we feel, through our sorrow's night,
That those young souls are striving still
    Somewhere for the truth and light.

It was not their time for rest and sleep;
    Their hearts beat high and strong;
In their fresh veins the blood of youth
    Was singing its hot, s...

John Hay