Your memory perennial shall spring,
And loving tears each spring-time shall bedew
The flowers that loving hands shall here renew;
And younger bards, with truer touch than mine,
Will pour for you the flood of song divine,
While millions yet unborn, with quickening breath,
Will hear the tale heroic of your death.
O host of gallant comrades sweeping by,
Up the red track of glory to the sky—
Reynolds, McPherson, Dahlgren, Garesché,