  Written by request, and read at Huntington Hall, Memorial Evening Services, 1896. Dead on the field of battle, the sacrifice complete, With none to tell the story of that last sublime retreat, The fearless rush to conquer and the awful price it cost When riven lines were reeling like a vessel tempest tossed. Dead on the field of battle, the glowing words inspire The courage of the hero as he meets the foeman's fire; His bayonet is flashing in the thickest of the fight, An invincible avenger of liberty and right. Dead on the field of battle, away from home and friends And dying for the country ev'ry loyal son defends, The clash of arms around him with the battlefield his bier, He gives his life a ransom for the flag he holds so dear. Dead on the field of battle, untroubled by its roar The willing hands are quiet as they never were before; The eager eyes are fading and the pleasant smile has flown, But the record he is leaving is evermore his own. Dead on the field of battle, we search but search in vain To find the missing martyr 'mid the legions of the slain; Downtrodden in the conflict there is nothing left to show The consecrated service of the one who lies below. * * * * * Dead on the field of battle, let patient mourners weep, Nor dream that eulogies alone can bless the watch they keep; For sacred is the hallowed spot where fairest blossoms bloom, And where our starry banner waves above the soldiers' tomb. Dead on the field of battle, in nameless graves they lie, A host of gallant comrades 'neath a tender southern sky; And no man knows the number, or beheld them as they fell, Or hopes to pierce the silence where they now so calmly dwell. Dead on the field of battle,—on Freedom's holy shrine, But Honor's hand shall point us to their monument divine, A catafalque of glory that abides above the brave, This great and growing Union they so freely died to save. Dead on the field of battle,—the battlefield of life, Unmindful of its turmoil and the ceaseless din of strife; Though many still may linger of the brave, the tried, the true, They all must quickly gather for the final grand review. Dead on the field of battle? Nay, living heroes come With martial note, with banners furled, with sadly muffled drum; We hear the dirges wailing past upon the fragrant breeze, And know they swell and sob and die, o'er thousands such as these. Dead on the field of battle, the bugle sweet and clear Is telling how they fought and bled, these soldiers we revere;— These noble comrades, honor crowned, now moving on abreast To love's eternal camping ground and to eternal rest. |
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