Soldiers, is this the spot? Fair the scene is, calm and fair, In this still October air; Far blue hills look gently down On the happy, tranquil town, And the ridges nearer by Steeped in autumn sunshine lie. Laden orchards, smiling fields, Rich in all that nature yields; Bright streams winding in and out Fertile meadows round about, Lowing herds and hum of bee, Birds that flit from tree to tree, Children’s voices ringing clear, All we touch or see or hear— Fruit of gold in silver set— Tell of joy and peace. And yet— Soldiers, is this the spot That can never be forgot? Was it here that shot and shell Poured as from the mouth of hell, Drenched the shrinking, trembling plain With a flood of fiery rain? Was it here the awful wonder Of the cannon’s crashing thunder Shook the affrighted hills, and made Even the stolid rocks afraid? Was it here an armèd host, Like two clouds where lightnings play, Or two oceans, tempest tost, Clashed and mingled in the fray? Here that, ’mid the din and smoke, Roar of guns and sabre stroke, Tramp of furious steeds, where moan Horse and rider, both o’erthrown, Lurid fires and battle yell, Forty thousand brave men fell?
V.
O brothers, words are weak! What tongue shall dare to speak? Even song itself grows dumb In this high presence.—Come Forth, ye whose ashes lie Under this arching sky! Speak ye in accents clear Words that we fain would hear! Tell us when your dim eyes, Holy with sacrifice, Looked through the battle smoke Up to the skies; Tell us, ye valiant dead, When your souls starward fled, How from the portals far Where the immortals are, Chieftains and vikings old, Heroes and warriors bold, Men whom old Homer sung, Men of each age and tongue, Knights from a thousand fields Bearing their blazoned shields Thronged forth to meet ye! Tell us how, floating down, Each with a martyr’s crown, They who had kept the faith, Grandly defying death; They who for conscience’ sake Felt their firm heartstrings break; They who for truth and right Unshrinking fought the fight; They who through fire and flame Passed on to deathless fame, Hastened to greet ye! Tell how they welcomed ye, Hailed and applauded ye, Claimed ye as comrades true, Brave as the world e’er knew; Led your triumphant feet Up to the highest seat, Crowned ye with amaranth, Laurel and palm.
VI.
Alas, alas! They speak not! The silence deep they break not! Heaven keeps its martyred ones Beyond or moon or suns; And Valhalla keeps its braves, Leaving to us their graves! Then let these graves speak for them As long as the wind sweeps o’er them! As long as the sentinel ridges Keep guard on either hand; As long as the hills they fought for Like silent watch-towers stand!
VII.
Yet not of them alone Round each memorial stone Shall the proud breezes whisper as they pass, Rustling the faded leaves On chilly autumn eves, And swaying tenderly the sheltering grass! O ye who on this field Knew not the joy to yield Your young, glad lives in glorious conflict up; Ye who as bravely fought, Ye who as grandly wrought, Draining with them war’s darkly bitter cup, As long as stars endure And God and Truth are sure; While Love still claims its own, While Honor holds its throne And Valor hath a name, Still shall these stony pages Repeat to all the ages The story of your fame!
VIII.
O beautiful one, my Country, Thou fairest daughter of Time, To-day are thine eyes unclouded In the light of a faith sublime! No thunder of battle appals thee; From thy woe thou hast found release; From the graves of thy sons steals only This one soft whisper,—“Peace!”