NO tap of drum nor sound of any horn Shall call them now from this unbattled height; No more the picket dreads the traitor night, Nor would the marcher tired delay the morn. Fell some upon the field with victory torn From weakening grasp; and some before the fight, Doomed by slow fevers or the stray shot's spite; And some, old wounds through quiet years have worn. And all are folded now so peacefully Within her breast whose glory was their dream— From her own sanguine fields, from isles extreme, From the long tumult of the land and sea— Where lies the steel Potomac's jewelled stream Like the surrendered sword of Memory. |