Mark ye the men of other days!
The true, the tried of yore,
Even now they come on Fancy's gaze,
As in might they came before;
They come--aye, 'tis a gallant show,--
These died not for a name;
Not to pluck garlands from the foe,
Or trumpet-songs from fame.
In proud array their ranks again
Start from the heaving sod,
They marshal on the embattled plain,
Their warrior feet once trod;
The sainted, the immortal band,
Forever Freedom's boast,--
On Recollection's mount they stand,
A glorious, god-like host.
Clothed in the perils of that day,
And wounds no longer dumb,
With honours torn from deadly fray,
The ghosts--they come! they come!
Each phantom-finger points afar
To many a blood-dyed field;
Behold their wounds! in every scar
Behold a nation's shield!
They come, exalted from the crowd
Of all the ignoble dead;
To tell of these whom grief hath bowed,
Who bled as they have bled;
In the light of every lofty deed,
Their shadows rise to view;
They come from trophied tombs to plead
For these--the lingering few.
The breeze that waves their withered hairs
Is stirred not with their breath;
Voiceless--yet deep that speech, for theirs
Is eloquence of death:
Stretch out the strong, the succouring arm
For these, the faithful Brave;
The weary-worn--their passing calm
Down to the peaceful grave!
