Here, whilst the twilight dews
Are softly gathering
on the leaves and flowers,
I come, patriot dead, to muse
A few brief hours,
Hard by you, rank on rank,
Rise
the sad evergreens, whose solemn forms
Are dark as if
they only drank
The thunder-storms.
Through the
thick leaves around
The low, wild winds their dirge-like
music pour,
Like the far ocean's solemn sound,
On its
lone shore.
From all the air a sigh,
Dirge-like
and soul-like, melancholy, wild,
Comes like a mother's
wailing cry
O'er her dead child.
Yonder, a little
way,
Where mounds rise thick like surges on the sea,
Those whom ye met in fierce array
Sleep dreamlessly.
The same soft breezes sing,
The same birds chant
their spirit-requiem,
The same sad flowers their
fragrance fling
O'er you and them.
And pilgrims
oft will grieve
Alike o'er Northern and o'er Southern
dust.
And both to God's great mercy leave
In equal
trust.
Oh, ye and they, as foes,
Will meet no
more, but calmly take your rest,
The meek hands folded in
repose
On each still breast.
No marble columns
rear
Their shafts to blazon each dead hero's name,
Yet
well, oh, well, ye slumber here,
Great sons of fame!
The dead as free will start
From the unburdened as
the burdened sod,
And stand as pure in soul and heart
Before their God. |
