[306]
No more for him shall cannons park,
Or tents gleam white upon the plain; And where his camp-tires blazed of yore,
Brown reapers laugh amid the grain!
No more above his narrow bed,
Shall sound the tread of marching feet, The rifle volley, and the clash
Of sabres when the foemen meet.
And, though the winds of autumn rave,
And winter-snows fall thick and deep About his breast — they cannot move
The quiet of his dreamless sleep.
We may not raise a marble shaft
Above the heart that now is dust; But nature, like a mother fond,
Will ne'er forget her sacred trust.
Young April, o'er his lowly mound,
Shall shake the violets from her hair; And glorious June, with fervid kiss,
Shall bid the roses blossom there.
And round about the droning bee,
With drowsy hum, shall come and go; While west winds, all the live-long day,
Shall murmur dirges soft and low.
The warrior's stormy fate is o'er,
The midnight gloom hath passed away; And, like a glory from the East,
Breaks the first light of Freedom's day!
And white-winged Peace o'er all the land,
Broods like a dove upon her nest; While iron War, with slaughter gorged,
At length hath laid him down to rest.
And where we won our onward way
With fire and steel-through yonder wood-The blackbird whistles, and the quail
Gives answer to her timid brood.
No more for him shall cannons park,
Or tents gleam white upon the plain; And where his camp-tires blazed of yore,
Brown reapers laugh amid the grain!
No more above his narrow bed,
Shall sound the tread of marching feet, The rifle volley, and the clash
Of sabres when the foemen meet.
And, though the winds of autumn rave,
And winter-snows fall thick and deep About his breast — they cannot move
The quiet of his dreamless sleep.
We may not raise a marble shaft
Above the heart that now is dust; But nature, like a mother fond,
Will ne'er forget her sacred trust.
Young April, o'er his lowly mound,
Shall shake the violets from her hair; And glorious June, with fervid kiss,
Shall bid the roses blossom there.
And round about the droning bee,
With drowsy hum, shall come and go; While west winds, all the live-long day,
Shall murmur dirges soft and low.
The warrior's stormy fate is o'er,
The midnight gloom hath passed away; And, like a glory from the East,
Breaks the first light of Freedom's day!
And white-winged Peace o'er all the land,
Broods like a dove upon her nest; While iron War, with slaughter gorged,
At length hath laid him down to rest.
And where we won our onward way
With fire and steel-through yonder wood-The blackbird whistles, and the quail
Gives answer to her timid brood.
