YOUNG AMERICA.
181
The mourner turns—looks—listens, and is gone,
In quiet heedlessness the Boy sleeps on.
III.
Nearer the bugle’s echo comes,
Nearer the fife is singing,
Near and more near the roll of drums
Through the air is ringing.
War! it is thy music proud,
Wakening the brave-hearted,
Memories—hopes—a glorious crowd,
At its call have started.
Memories of our sires of old,
Who, oppression-driven,
High their rainbow flag unrolled
To the sun and sky of heaven.
Memories of the true and brave,
Who, at Honor’s bidding,
Stepped, their Country’s life to save,
To war as to their wedding.
Memories of many a battle-plain,
Where, their life-blood flowing,
Made green the grass, and gold the grain,
Above their grave-mounds growing.
