The soft new grass is creeping o'er the graves By the Potomac; and the crisp ground-flower Tilts its blue cup to catch the passing shower; The pine-cone ripens, and the long moss waves Its tangled gonfalons above our braves. Hark, what a burst of music from yon bower! -- The Southern nightingale that hour by hour In its melodious summer madness raves. Ah, with what delicate touches of her hand, With what sweet voice of bird and rivulet And drowsy murmur of the rustling leaf Would Nature soothe us, bidding us forget The awful crime of this distracted land And all our heavy heritage of grief.