Classic Poem

Not where his fathers rest, beside the sea,
But far away upon Potomac's shore,
Or in the distant West, his grave may be,
Who comes to his New-England home no more.

Fond hearts are aching in their silent grief,
Within the cot which love a palace made;
While patriot pride and Christian hope relief
Offers to those who mourn their cherished dead.

Comfort will come, but only, Lord, from thee.
In thee, O Christ! alone the heart is glad,
Whose earthly hopes like shadows seem to flee,
Whose loss uncounted makes each moment sad.

When to the din of battle he, the brave,
Rushed like a hero, at his country's call,
He thought to win a garland or the grave,
To live a conqueror, or a martyr fall.

Now angels chant their pæans o'er his head;
The land he loved, the land for which he died,
Counts him amid her dear and honored dead,
And writes his name on History's page with pride.

O buried volunteer! thy praise shall sound
Sweet in thy children's ears in days to be;
And, when blest freedom circles earth around,
God, with truth's champions, will remember thee.