This week's featured article on my Best of Confederate Veteran site is the origen of the Poem, "The Conquered Banner" by Father Abram Joseph Ryan of Augusta, GA. "Perhaps no poem ever touched and thrilled the hearts of the people of the South as did the " Conquered Banner," by Father Ryan. It came from the heart of the poet at the time when the Southland stood in grief and in untold sorrow. Though his face wore a serious and almost sad aspect, he dearly loved to gather children about him, as he seldom spoke to older people. ... a young lady from the South... related to him the following beautiful and touching incident in the poet's life. The little story is as follows: "One Christmas - I was then a little girl," says the young lady - "I came to Father Ryan with a bookmark, a pretty little scroll of the 'Conquered Banner,' and begged him to accept it. I can never forget how his lips quivered as he placed his hands upon my head and said (a little kindly remembrance touched him so): 'Call your little sisters, and I will tell them a story about this picture. Do you know, my children,' he said as we gathered about his knee, 'that the "Conquered Banner" is a great poem? I never thought it so,' he continued in that dreamy, far-off way so peculiarly his own; 'but a poor woman who did not have much education, but whose heart was filled with love for the South, thought so, and if it had not been for her this poem would have been swept out of the house and burned up, and I would never have had this pretty book-mark or this true story to tell vou.' " THE CONQUERED BANNER Father Abram Joseph Ryan 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 valiant hosts are scattered Over whom it floated high. Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it, Hard to think there's none to hold it, Hard that those who once unrolled it Now must furl it with a sigh. Furl that Banner! Furl it sadly -- Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, and ten thousands wildly, madly, Swore it should forever wave, Swore that foeman's sword should never Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, Till that flag should float forever O'er their freedom or their grave. Furl it! for the hands that grasped it, And the hearts that fondly clasped it, Cold and dead are lying low: And that Banner, it is trailing, While around it sounds the wailing Of its people in their woe. For, though conquered, they adore it, Love the cold, dead hands that bore it, Weep for those who fell before it, Pardon those who trailed and tore it, And, oh! wildly they deplored it, Now to furl and fold it so. Furl that Banner! true 'tis gory, Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory, And 'twill live in song and story, Though its folds are in the dust; For its fame on brightest pages, Penned by poets and by sages, Shall go sounding down the ages, Furl its folds though now we must, Furl that Banner, softly, slowly, Treat it gently -- it is holy -- For it droops above the dead; Touch it not -- unfold it never, Let it droop there, furled forever, For its people's hopes are dead! John Rigdon The Best of Confederate Veteran Magazine http://www.researchonline.net/cvm