THE DRUMMER BOY'S BURIAL
All day long the storm of battle through the startled valley swept;
All night long the stars in heaven o'er the slain sad vigils kept.
All night long the stars in heaven o'er the slain sad vigils kept.
Oh, the ghastly, upturned faces, gleaming whitely through the night!
Oh, the heaps of mangled corses in that dim, sepulchral light!
Oh, the heaps of mangled corses in that dim, sepulchral light!
One by one the pale stars faded, and at length the morning broke;
But not one of all the sleepers on that field of death awoke.
But not one of all the sleepers on that field of death awoke.
Slowly passed the golden hours of the long bright summer day,
And upon the field of carnage still the dead unburied lay
And upon the field of carnage still the dead unburied lay
Lay there stark and cold, but pleading with a dumb, unceasing prayer,
For a little dust to hide them from the staring sun and air.
For a little dust to hide them from the staring sun and air.
Once again the night dropped round them—night so holy and so calm
That the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like the sound of prayer or psalm.
That the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like the sound of prayer or psalm.
On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all the rest,
Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded on his breast.
Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded on his breast.
