The Volunteer’s Burial

’Tis eve; one bright­ly beam­ing star

Shines from the east­ern heav’n afar

To light the foot­steps of the brave

Slow march­ing to a com­rade’s grave.

And whose the form

all stark and cold

Thus rea­dy for the loos­ened mould

And stretched up­on so rude a bier?

Thine

sol­dier

thine! the Vol­un­teer.

Poor Vol­un­teer! the shot

the blow

Or swift dis­ease hath laid him low;

And few his ear­ly loss de­plore—

His bat­tle fought

his jour­ney o’er.

Alas! no wife’s fond arms ca­ressed

His cheek no ten­der mo­ther pressed;

No pi­ty­ing soul was by his side

As lone­ly in his tent he died.

He died—the Vo­lun­teer—at noon;

At ev­en­ing came the small pla­toon

That soon will leave him to his rest

With sods up­on his man­ly breast.

Hark to their fire! his on­ly knell—

More so­lemn than the pass­ing bell;

For ah! it tells a spir­it flown

Unshriven

to the home un­known.

Alas! like him

how ma­ny more

Like cold up­on Po­to­mac’s shore!

How many green un­not­ed graves

Are bor­dered by those pla­cid waves.

Wake! sol­dier

wake! from sor­row flee

And sin and strife. ’Tis well with thee.

’Tis well; though not a sin­gle tear

Laments the bur­ied Vo­lun­teer!