AT GETTYSBURG.
Bells of victory are dumb;
Trailing sword and muffled drum
On we come,
Downcast eyes and broken tread,
Weary arms, and burdenèd
With our dead.
Lives were proffered: reck not his;
For dear Freedom’s ransom is
Sacrifice.
Proud our love is, nor at last
With a sorrow that is past
O’er the very clay we bring,
Meet it is that we should sing
Triumphing:
He was foremost, he was leal;
Let his gallant breast reveal
Honor’s seal.
Him we yield the Roman crown,
Woven bays; in his renown
Lay him down.
Earth will softest pillow make,
So that never heart shall ache
For his sake;
Spring will pass here many a day,
Sighing, one with thoughts that pray
Far away,
“When the trumpets shake the sod,
Raise Thy Knight from this dull clod,
Lord our God!”