| |
| THE TENTS that whitened Arlington have vanished from the fields, | |
| And plenty where the cannon stood a golden harvest yields; | |
| The campfires gleam no more at night, and pleasant mornings come, | |
| Without the blare of bugles or the beating of the drum. | |
| |
| The rushes by the riverside thrill with the reed-birds’ song, | 5 |
| And bend to kiss the ripples as the waters flow along; | |
| The robins stray beneath the oaks, the partridge calls its brood, | |
| And whistles down the valleys with a confidence renewed. | |
| |
| All through the widening rifle-pits the grass is growing green, | |
| And autumn wild-flowers blossom where the bivouacs have been; | 10 |
| The days seem like a sunny dream, and night falls gently down | |
| In silence, broken only by the murmur from the town. | |
| |
| But though the camps have vanished and the tents are laid away, | |
| An army waits upon the knolls in undisturbed array,— | |
| A legion without banners, that knows no music save | 15 |
| The wailing of the dead-march and a volley o’er the grave. | |
| |
| Here comrades that together strove, with all of life at stake, | |
| Lie side by side, in slumber that no bugle-call can break; | |
| No shock can ever break their ranks, no blast their columns thin, | |
| Nor one deserter leave the corps their grim Chief musters in. | 20 |
| |
| Spring twines its garlands o’er their heads, but they never cull its flowers, | |
| And peaceful winter evenings bring to them no happy hours. | |
| Tears fall at home; they heed them not, and care no more to earn | |
| The love that waited patiently to welcome their return. | |
| |
| Alas! what dreams of life and love have ended in these grounds! | 25 |
| How many hopes are buried in these little grassy mounds! | |
| How many hearts have felt the pang the lips could never tell, | |
| And broken, striving to believe “He doeth all things well!” | |
| |
| ’T is sweet to think the war is o’er; that all its bitter pain | |
| Was measured for our chastening and not endured in vain; | 30 |
| And dearer still it is to know that in the coming years | |
| A nation’s happiness will bless our offerings and our tears. * * * * * | |
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