Hush’d be the camps to-day; And, soldiers, let us drape our war-worn weapons; And each with musing soul retire, to celebrate, Our dear commander’s death.
No more for him life’s stormy conflicts; Nor victory, nor defeat—no more time’s dark events, Charging like ceaseless clouds across the sky.
2
But sing, poet, in our name; Sing of the love we bore him—because you, dweller in camps, know it truly.
As they invault the coffin there; Sing—as they close the doors of earth upon him—one verse, For the heavy hearts of soldiers.
