And seem to say with hollow steps,
From all that mighty vanguard gone before
To this small rearguard—Dead! Dead! Dead!
A few more years bivouac here,
A few more years of sepulture
In trench or dungeon, grave or moaning deep,
A few more years of Death’s soft slumbering night
Till all that spectral host appear
Before the throned Cynosure
Whose reveille will call them from their sleep