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Some thought of stately marble halls,
That in the city tower'd,
And others of a humble cot,
Amid the vines embower'd ;
Yet, whereso'er their thoughts were turned,
As memory's magnet drew them,
The spot was hallowed by the name
Of "Home, Sweet Home," unto them.
But when the morn in beauty broke,
Those heroes who had striven
So nobly for their homes, had found
A better home in heaven.
Then, softer grew the hard brown hand,
As, with a woman's care,
Rough soldiers gently bore away
Their fallen comrades there.
And when the last long trench had closed
Above unnumbered slain,
All grades forgot an army lay
Encamped beneath this plain !
Yes ! in dark barracks underneath
Rest those who chose the cypress wreath,
In service brief as glorious gained,
To laurels with dishonor stained.
Rest, till with those who bivouac still
At Marathon and Bunker Hill.
By louder trump than battle drew,
They've marshalled for the last review.
No more the pulse that beats so true
Will quicken as the loud tattoo
Ascends at sunrise from the camp,
Or sternly beat the measured tramp :
But hands unseen will hither bring
The earliest violets of the spring ;
And pilgrims who have viewed with awe
The ruins of that haunted shore,
Where shrouds of lava overspread
The silent cities of the dead,
And every step brings through the gloom
An echo from storied tomb—
No longer o'er the deep will roam,
To leave a holier shrine at home !
For every clod we tread to-day
Is moulded from some hero's clay.
And looking downward from the skies,
Perchance the melancholy eyes