No more.
Far to the Westward the day is at vespers,
And bows down its head, like a priest, to adore;
Soldier, the twilight for thee has no whispers,
The night shall forsake thee, the morn shall awake thee
No more.
Wide o'er the plain, where the white tents are gleaming,
In spectral array, like the graves they're before—
One there is empty, where once thou wert dreaming
Of deeds that are boasted, of One that is toasted