take. What might ensue? What might not ensue? Would the strife end then
and there? Would it die in a death-grapple, only to reappear in that
chronic form of a vanquished but indomitable people, writhing and
struggling, in the grasp of an insatiate but only nominal victor?

The answer depended on two men,--the captains of the contending forces.
Think what then might have resulted had these two men been other than
what they were,--had the one been stern and aggressive, the other sullen
and unyielding. Most fortunately for us, they were what and who they
were,--_Grant and Lee. Of the two, I know not to which to award the
palm._ Instinctively, unconsciously, they vied not unsuccessfully each
with the other, in dignity, magnanimity, simplicity.

THE CONQUERED BANNER

LIKE several other poems of renown, "The Conquered Banner" was written
under stress of deep emotion.

Abram J. Ryan (Father Ryan) had been ordained as a Catholic priest.
Shortly after his ordination he was made a chaplain in the Confederate
army.

When the news came of General Lee's surrender at Appomattox he was in
his room in Knoxville, where his regiment was quartered.

He bowed his head upon the table and wept bitterly.

He then arose and looked about him for a piece of paper, but could find
nothing but a sheet of brown paper wrapped about a pair of shoes.
Spreading this out upon the table, he, "in a spirit of sorrow and
desolation" as expressed in his own words, wrote upon it "The Conquered
Banner."

The following morning the regiment was ordered away, and the poem upon
the table was forgotten. To the author's surprise it appeared over his
name, in a Louisville paper, a few weeks later, having been forwarded to
the paper by the lady in whose house he had stopped in Knoxville.

The poem was widely copied, and was read at gatherings throughout the
South with ardor and often with tears.

As an expression of sorrow without bitterness it is considered a fine
example.

THE CONQUERED BANNER

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;
And its foes now scorn and brave it;
Furl it, hide it--let it rest!

Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered;
Broken is its staff and shattered;
And the