  Read at Utica, N. Y., on the occasion of decorating the graves of the Federal dead, May 30, 1872. They sleep so calm and stately, Each in his graveyard bed, It scarcely seems that lately They trod the fields blood-red, With fearless tread. They marched and never halted, They scaled the parapet, The triple lines assaulted, And paid without regret The final debt. The debt of slow accruing A guilty nation made, The debt of evil doing, Of justice long delayed, 'Twas this they paid. On fields where Strife held riot, And Slaughter fed his hounds, Where came no sense of quiet, Nor any gentle sounds, They made their rounds. They wrought without repining, Till, weary watches o'er, Our green, familiar shore, Forevermore. And now they sleep so stately, Each in his graveyard bed, So calmly and sedately They rest, that once I said: "These men are dead. "They know not what sweet duty We come each year to pay, Nor heed the blooms of beauty, The garland gifts of May, Strewn here to-day. "The night-time and the day-time, The rise and set of sun, The winter and the May-time, To them whose work is done, Are all as one." Then o'er mine eyes there floated A vision of the Land Where their brave souls, promoted To Heaven's own armies, stand At God's right hand. From out the mighty distance I seemed to see them gaze Back on the battle-blaze Of war's dread days. "The flowers shall fade and perish (In larger faith spake I), But these dear names we cherish Are written in the sky, And cannot die." Theodore P. Cook. |
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