ONCE again, in silence solemn, forms the remnant of the column
That had borne with Grant the fever and the load of darksome days;
Some are worn and old and stooping, like the colors furled or drooping
’Neath the crape that hides the tatters and the rents of battle’s blaze.
Through the voiceless, mourning city, draped in sombre garb of pity,
Keeping step in rhythmic cadence marches past the old brigade;
And the watching crowds that border mark the old-time soldier order—
The symmetrical alignment of the veteran parade.
At the measured tread resounding warrior fancies pierce surrounding
Mists and clouds of two long decades—picture visions far away,
Where Potomac rolls its billow over many a hero’s pillow,
Or the Rappahannock murmurs dirges still to Blue and Gray.
Hark! the muffled drums are beating calls for charging or retreating,
And their old Commander leads again the legions of the free;
In the funeral anthems tolling they can hear war’s thunder rolling;
They are marching on to Richmond, or Atlanta to the sea.
See, their dimming eyes grow brighter and their painful footsteps lighter;
The dead-marches seem to echo like familiar camping strains,
And the “boys” again together tramp through swamp or over heather,
Joyous only in their triumphs and forgetful of their pains.
Their Commander is not sleeping. Why, his eagle glance is sweeping
With mingled pride and pleasure o’er the tried and faithful line;
Cheers again the skies are rending, and their serried ranks ascending
The slippery slopes of Vicksburg, o’er abandoned scarp and mine.
Still more vivid grows the seeming: still more real is the dreaming,
While a milder radiance mingles with the conflict’s passioned glow,
For in Victory’s fevered hour, Mercy holds the hands of power,
Like their leader, they know only former brothers in the foe.
. . . . . . .
Halt! The soldier’s dream is over, and gray scattered locks uncover;
Not the laurel but the cypress with their banners must entwine;
For the last salute is pealing, as his faithful comrades, kneeling,
Weep farewell, farewell forever, to the Leader of the line.
Yet, no; Fate cannot sever ties so firmly linked forever,
And, when Time shall close the record of all nations’ peace and war,
The Angel’s trump shall waken ranks unbroken and unshaken,
And their old Commander lead them through the Golden Gates Ajar.