We dip them o’er and o’er again
In love’s immortal fount; but when
We find that all has been in vain,
God shield us in our anguish then.
The Death-drum beats, the roll is called,
New names are on the list to-day:
Some answer calm and unappalled
As if ’twere pleasure to obey.
For life to them was full of pain,
Death opened wide the only door,
While others weep and plead in vain
For just one little moment more.
Through all the springs that come and go,
At noon, at night, at early dawn,
Through summer’s heat and winter’s snow,
That silent army marches on!
On, on forever to the tomb!
They pitch no tents along the way;
On, on, it is the common doom,
There’s no return and no delay.
They take no purse nor scrip with them
However rich they were before;
The brow of beauty wears no gem,
And slaves are men—and kings
no more.
From every land, and sea, and clime,
Through all the ages that are gone,
Through all the years of future time,
That host has marched—will
still march on.
And shall we of to-morrow boast?
This very night may seal our doom
And find us with that shadowy host,
Whose line of march is for the tomb!
Death and the tomb! our hearts rebel,
And wonder why such things should be;
Great God, who doeth all things well,
We leave these mysteries with Thee!
Thou knowest why, and we shall know
When raised in triumph from the grave,
Redeemed from death, and sin, and woe,
Through Him who hath the power to save.
A warrior lay, with a heaving breast,
On the field of the dying and dead;
His cheek was pale and his lips compressed,
And the fading light from the distant west
Shone o’er his gory bed.
The night came on, and the moon arose
With her soft and tremulous glow;
She shed her light o’er friends and o’er
foes,
All sleeping together in dull repose
On the battle-field below.
The warrior gazed with a mournful sigh
On the blue and the star-spangled dome;
While tears shone bright in his sunken eye,
And vivid thoughts like the lightning fly
To his childhood’s distant home.
He thought of the mother who used to bend
O’er his couch, when in sorrow and
pain—
Who to his complaints an ear would lend;
But alas! he knew that that dearest friend
Would never bend o’er him again.
He thought of the scenes where once he strayed
With his brothers in days of yore;
He thought of the stream, the peaceful glade,
The cottage that stood in the dark green shade,
With the vines around the door.
He thought, with a pang of dark despair,
’Twas the hour they all used to
meet
With grateful heart for the evening prayer;
He thought of the group that were gathered there;
He thought—of a vacant seat.
