O gallant brothers of the generous South,
   Foes for a day and brothers for all time!
   I charge you by the memories of our youth,
   by Yorktown's field and Montezuma's clime,
   hold our dead sacred--let them quietly rest
   in your unnumbered vales, where God thought best.
   Your vines and flowers learned long since to 
   forgive, and o'er their graves a broidered 
   mantle weave: Be you as kind as they are, and
   the word shall reach the Northland with each
   summer bird, and thoughts as sweet as summer
   shall awake responsive to your kindness, and
   shall make our peace the peace of brothers once
   again, and banish utterly the days of pain. And
   ye, O Northmen! be ye not outdone in generous 
   thought and deed. We all do need forgiveness, 
   every one; and they that give shall find it in
   their need. Spare of your flowers to deck the 
   stranger's grave; who died for a lost cause:
   A soul more daring, resolute, and brave ne'er 
   won a world's applause. A brave man's hatred 
   pauses at the tomb. For him some Southern home
   was robed in gloom, some wife or mother looked
   with longing eyes through sad days and nights 
   with tears and sighs, hope slowly hardening into
   gaunt Despair. Then let your foeman's grave 
   remembrance share: Pity a higher charm to Valor
   lends, and in the realm of Sorrow all are friends.