Oh, there are many lonely lie beneath the rev’rent blue,
But they will not be missing from the final grand review;
Let wives and mothers gather near, and little children weep
Above the dreary pillows where the martyred heroes sleep.
The martyred heroes; yonder shaft of granite guards a spot,
The sepulchre of comrades that can never be forgot;
While pride endures, and nations thrive, and patriots survive
Must Lowell keep the mem’ry of her own great loss alive.
She scatters garlands o’er her dead and softly tolls the bells,
But for her martyred heroes are the precious immortelles.
Oh, Ladd and Whitney, side by side, in peaceful silence rest,
Among the fairest jewels that adorn Columbia’s breast.
We cannot think of them as lost, for moving on and on
The soul shall rise triumphant on the resurrection morn;
Upon the angel wings of prayer let thought sublime ascend
Until we feel the grandeur that the dying comprehend.
With muffled drum, with banners furled, with martial step and slow,
Oh, gather by the sacred dust, the dust that lies below;
And mingle with the breath of flowers that sigh above the brave,
The note of lamentation, like an echo from the grave.
The laurel wreath, the tearful eye and Honor’s fairest crown
Are drops in life’s great ocean to the price that they laid down.
Hush! listen to the sacred dirge, it swells,—it sobs,—it dies:
Until we see them marching, marching home beyond the skies.
OUR CITY.
Turn backward the close written pages,
Close written with deeds breathing praise,
A secret attracting the sages,
The fruitful reward of our gaze.
Yes, turn back the close written pages, in gratitude seeking the clue;
Be thankful to find it and wonder to such a fair record review.