BY (REV.) JOSEPH C. BOOTH.
Hark! Martial music fills the air,
The muddled drum doth beat;
The huge procession banners bear
Along the village street,
Into the city of the dead,
Where, in his lowly, narrow bed,
The honored veteran-soldier sleeps;
The man who shed his blood for us,
Who went through fire and flood for us—
For him his country weeps.
Upon his grave are garlands laid
And posy-wreaths are strewn,
Fresh from the woodland's leafy shade
And gardens of the town;
But, more impressive e'en than flowers
And blossoms from the orchard bowers,
A starry ensign, planted there,
Doth wave: "What is it?" List to me:
It is the flag of victory—
The flag "without compare!"
Around the monument they meet,
Their praises to bequeathe;
Their panegyrics they repeat,
The grave unknown they wreaths.
Stirred by his patriotic theme
The orator pours forth a stream
Of heartfelt eloquence sublime!
A grateful song of praise doth rise,
Like incense-cloud into the skies,
As it doth heavenward climb.
Their guns the Sons of Veterans fire;
The bugler blows his "taps;"
Lo! glory's halo doth attire
The scene that fame enwraps!
The huge procession forms again;
The band strikes up a lively strain,
As from the graves of fame they go,
Back to the shop, the store, the farm,
To dwell in peace, without alarm—
Awed by no outward foe!