But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy work was done, And in crimson pomp the morning again heralded the sun.
And then those little maidens—they were children of our foes— Laid the body of our Drummer-Boy to undisturbed repose.
1865
O darkest Year! O brightest Year! O changeful Year of joy and woe, To-day we stand beside thy bier, Still loth to let thee go!
We look upon thy brow, and say, “How old he is,—how old and worn!” Has but a twelvemonth passed away Since thou wert newly born?
So long it seems since on the air The joy-bells rang to hail thy birth— And pale lips strove to call thee fair, And sing the songs of mirth!
For dark the heavens that o’er thee hung; By stormy winds thy couch was rocked; Thy cradle-hymn the Furies sung, While sneering Demons mocked!
We held our very breath for dread; Shadowed by clouds, that, like a pall, Darkened the blue sky overhead, And night hung over all.
But thou wert better than our fears, And bade our land’s long anguish cease; And gave us, O thou Year of years, The costly pearl of Peace!
So dearly bought! By precious blood Of patriot heroes—sire and son— And that of him, the pure and good, Our wearied, martyred One;