Eyes smile to ours; we hear each tender tone,
Grief's smart is softened—less the sense of loss.
This grave we have, at least; we're not alone!
And they must know of our unchanging love—
Our tender thought—our memory—our prayers!
And in our constancy, ah! each one shares
To whom death comes on distant battlefields,
When life's last breath not even the solace yields—
"There's one who'll mourn for me—whose tears will flow!"—
Not even a grave is theirs, unnamed, unwept!