Alas! alas! for smiles ye give but tears, And wordless sorrow on each face appears.
And for glad music, jubilant and clear, The tolling bell, the muffled drum, we hear.
Woe to us, soldier, loyal, tried, and brave, That we have naught to give thee but a grave.
Woe that the wreath that should have decked thy brow, Can but be laid upon thy coffin now.
Woe that thou canst not hear us when we say,— “Hail to thee, brother, welcome home to-day!”
O God, we lift our waiting eyes to Thee, And sadly cry, how long must these things be?
How long must noble blood be poured like rain, Flooding our land from mountain unto main?
How long from desolated hearths must rise The smoke of life’s most costly sacrifice?
Our brothers languish upon beds of pain,— Father, O Father, have they bled in vain?
Is it for naught that they have drunken up The very dregs of this most bitter cup?