MEMORIAL DAY by Helen Leah Reed 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 in whose fond eyes too late he read That life for her had but begun with the farewells he sadly said. A half a century has passed-- and more--since all those myriads fell; For he was one of those who cast sweet life into a Battle's hell. The village has become a town, brick buildings the old graveyard gird; Of him who fought not for renown, no one now hears a spoken word, But on the Monument his name in gold is lettered with the rest. Without a sordid thought of fame he to his Country gave his best. Strew flowers, then, Memorial Day for him, for all who for us fought. With speech and music honors pay; teach what our brave defenders taught. And now our sons are setting out; the call for Right rings to the sky, "Our Country! Freedom!" hear them shout, re-echoing their Grandsires' cry.