July,—what is the news they tell?
A battle won: our eyes are dim,
And sad forbodings press the heart
Anxious, awaiting news from him.
Hour drags on hour: fond heart, be still,
Shall evil tidings break the spell?
A word at last!—they found him dead;
He fought in the advance, and fell.
Oh aloes of affliction poured
Into the wine cup of the soul!
Oh bitterness of anguish stored
To fill our grief beyond control!
At last he comes, awaited long,
Not to home welcomes warm and loud,
Not to the voice of mirth and song,
Pale featured, cold, beneath a shroud.
Oh from the morrow of our lives
A glowing hope has stolen away,
A something from the sun has fled,
That dims the glory of the day.
More earnestly we look beyond
The present life to that to be;
Another influence draws the soul
To long for that futurity.
Pardon if anguished souls refrain
Too little, grieving for the lost,
From thinking dearly bought the gain
Of victory at such fearful cost.
Teach us as dearest gain to prize
The glory crown he early won;
Forever shall his requiem rise:
Rest thee in peace, thy duty done.