From seeing our last comrade’s grave,—
O dear, last-billowed comrade hill!
Lone, last of graves our patriots fill!
O angel choir, wing low that day
And silken sing a Bethlehem strain
And all your pipes of welcome play!
Altho’ their brothers they have slain,
In brother love their hands grow white,
For what they did they thought was right.
Not into graves, but into skies,