(_May_ 4, 1865)
Hush'd be the camps to-day,
And soldiers let us drape our war-worn
weapons,
And each with musing soul retire to
celebrate,
Our dear commander's death.
No more for him life's stormy conflicts,
Nor victory, nor defeat--no more time's
dark events,
Charging like ceaseless clouds across
the sky.
But sing poet in our name,
Sing of the love we bore him--because
you, dweller in camps, know it
truly.
As they invault the coffin there,
Sing--as they close the doors of earth
upon him--one verse,
For the heavy hearts of soldiers.