Unseen its splendor, its regeneration;
All these will be to thee as they were not!
Soldier.
’Tis true death drowns man’s sense in Lethe’s slumber;
And ages pass without or note or number,
Yet love of home and country cannot die;
My spirit from yon beautiful Elysian
Rapt in the glory of ecstatic vision,
The loved of earth shall ever hover nigh.
The brightest Angels round the throne eternal,