With moaning sound, a stream
Sweeps past the Town's dark walls
Within her streets a bugle's voice
Her troops to slumber calls

The sentinels are set.
The wearied soldiers sleep,
But some shall know to-morrow-night
A slumber far more deep

A chill and hoary dew,
On tower, and bastion shines
What dew shall fall when War arrays
Her fiery battle-lines?

Trump and triumphant drum,
The conflict soon shall spread;
Who then will turn aside, and say
" We mourn the noble dead? "

Strong hands, heroic hearts
Shall homeward throng again,
Redeemed from battle's gory grasp.
Where will they leave the slain?

Beneath a foreign sod,
Beside an alien wave;
Watched by the martyr's holy God
Shall sleep the martyred brave.