The rifle-pits that scarred the Southern plains
Are washed away by twenty winters’ rains;
The impetuous onset of the bayonet line
Tramples no more the growing corn and vine,
And nesting birds pour forth their raptures where
The thunder-bolts of battle rent the air.
But still remain in many hearts we know
The ghastly scars of twenty years ago.
How many a comrade’s widow treads alone
A narrow path by cruel thorns o’ergrown!