Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,

When many a vanished age hath flown,!
The story how ye fell;

Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, A

Nor Time's remorseless doom,

Shall dim one ray of glory's light
That gilds your deathless tomb.

66

ROLL-CALL

CORPORAL GREEN!" the Orderly cried;
"Here!" was the answer loud and clear,
From the lips of a soldier standing near,-
And "Here!" was the word the next replied,

"Cyrus Drew!"-then a silence fell;

This time no answer followed the call; Only his rear-man had seen him fall: Killed or wounded-he could not tell.

There they stood in the failing light,

These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,
As plain to be read as open books,

While slowly gathered the shades of night.

I'

The fern on the hill-sides was splashed with blood,
And down in the corn, where the poppies grew,
Were redder stains than the poppies knew,
And crimson-dyed was the river's flood.

For the foe had crossed from the other side,
That day, in the face of a murderous fire 150l. 98.

That swept them down in its terrible ire;
And their life-blood went to color the tide.

"Herbert Cline!"--At the call there came
Two stalwart soldiers into the line,
Bearing between them this Herbert Cline,
Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.

"Ezra Kerr!"-and a voice answered "Here!"
"Hiram Kerr!"--but no man replied.

They were brothers, these two; the sad wind
sighed,

And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.

"Ephraim Deane!"-then a soldier spoke:

"Deane carried our regiment's colors," he said, "When our ensign was shot; I left him dead Just after the enemy wavered and broke.

"Close to the roadside his body lies;

I paused a moment and gave him to drink;
He murmured his mother's name, I think,
And Death came with it and closed his eyes."
'Twas a victory,-yes; but it cost us dear:

For that company's roll, when called at night,
Of a hundred men who went into the fight,
Numbered but twenty that answered "Here!”

Nathaniel Graham Shepherd [1835-1869]

DIRGE

FOR ONE WHO FELL IN BATTLE

ROOM for a Soldier! lay him in the clover;
He loved the fields, and they shall be his cover;

Make his mound with hers who called him once her lover:

Where the rain may rain upon it,

Where the sun may shine upon it,
Where the lamb hath lain upon it,
And the bee will dine upon it.

Bear him to no dismal tomb under city churches;

Take him to the fragrant fields, by the silver birches,

Where the whippoorwill shall mourn, where the oriole perches:

• Make his mound with sunshine on it,

Where the bee will dine upon it,

Where the lamb hath lain upon it,

And the rain will rain upon it.

Busy as the busy bee, his rest should be the clover;
Gentle as the lamb was he, and the fern should be his cover;
Fern and rosemary shall grow my soldier's pillow over:
Where the rain may rain upon it,

Where the sun may shine upon it,
Where the lamb hath lain upon it,
And the bee will dine upon it.

Sunshine in his heart, the rain would come full often
Out of those tender eyes which evermore did soften;
He never could look cold, till we saw him in his coffin:
Make a mound with sunshine on it,

Where the wind may sigh upon it,
Where the moon may stream upon it,
And Memory shall dream upon it.

"Captain or Colonel," whatever invocation
Suit our hymn the best, no matter for thy station,—
On thy grave the rain shall fall from the eyes of a mighty
nation!

Long as the sun doth shine upon it

Shall grow

the goodly pine upon it, Long as the stars do gleam upon it

Shall Memory come to dream upon it.

Thomas William Parsons [1819-1892]

DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER

CLOSE his eyes; his work is done!
What to him is friend or foeman,
Rise of moon, or set of sun,
Hand of man, or kiss of woman?
Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? he cannot know:

Lay him low!

As man may, he fought his fight,

Proved his truth by his endeavor;

Let him sleep in solemn night,

Sleep forever and forever.

Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know
Lay him low!

Fold him in his country's stars,
Roll the drum and fire the volley!
What to him are all our wars,
What but death-bemocking folly?
Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? he cannot know:
Lay him low!

Leave him to God's watching eye;

Trust him to the hand that made him.

Mortal love weeps idly by:

God alone has power to aid him.

Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? he cannot know:
Lay him low!

George Henry Boker [1823-1890]

1

"BLOW, BUGLES, BLOW"

BLOW, bugles, blow, soft and sweet and low,

Sing a good-night song for them who bravely faced the foe;

Sing a song of truce to pain,

Where they sleep nor wake again,

'Neath the sunshine or the rain

Blow, bugles, blow.

Wave, banners, wave, above each hero's grave,

Fold them, O thou stainless flag that they died to save;

All thy stars with glory bright,

Bore they on through Treason's night,

Through the darkness to the light

Wave, banners, wave.

Fall, blossoms, fall, over one and all,

They who heard their country's cry and answered to the call;

'Mid the shock of shot and shell,

Where they bled and where they fell,
They who fought so long and well-
Fall, blossoms, fall.

coldars) bar eyang gorkapu ZUTE
Sigh, breezes, sigh, so gently wandering by,
Bend above them tenderly, blue of summer sky;
All their weary marches done,

All their battles fought and won,
Friend and lover, sire and son-

Sigh, breezes, sigh.

John S. McGroarty [1862

“SUCH IS THE DEATH THE SOLDIER DIES"

SUCH is the death the soldier dies:
He falls, the column speeds away;

Upon the dabbled grass he lies,

His brave heart following, still, the fray.

The smoke-wraiths drift among the trees,

The battle storms along the hill;
The glint, of distant arms he sees;
He hears his comrades shouting still.

A glimpse of far-borne flags, that fade
And vanish in the rolling din:

He knows the sweeping charge is made,
The cheering lines are closing in.

Unmindful of his mortal wound,

He faintly calls and seeks to rise;

But weakness drags him to the ground:

Such is the death the soldier dies.

Robert Burns Wilson [1850