John Pierpont (1785–1866)

LONG, in a nameless grave,

Bones of the true and brave,

Have ye reposed!

This day our hands have dress’d,

This day our prayers have bless’d

A chamber for your rest;

And now ’tis closed.

Sleep on, ye slaughtered ones!

Your spirit, in your sons,

Shall guard your dust,

While winter comes in gloom,

While spring returns with bloom,

Nay! till this honour’d tomb

Gives up its trust.

When War’s first blast was heard,

These men stood forth to guard

Thy house, O God!

And now, thy house shall keep

Its vigils where they sleep,

And still its shadow sweep

O’er their green sod.

In morning’s prime they bled;

And morning finds their bed

With tears all wet:

Tears that thy hosts of light,

Rising in order bright,

To watch their tomb all night,

Shed for them yet.

Naught shall their slumber break:

For “they shall not awake,

Nor yet be raised

Out of their sleep,” before

Thy heavens, now arching o’er

Their couch, shall be no more.

Thy name be praised.