No more.
Soldier of Freedom, thy marches are ended—
The dreams that were prophets of triumph are o'er—
Death with the night of thy manhood is blended—
The bugle shall call thee, the fight shall enthrall thee
No more.
Far to the Northward the banners are dimming,
And faint comes the tap of the drummers before;
Low in the tree-tops the swallow is skimming;
Thy comrades shall cheer thee, the weakest shall fear thee