The night had come and the stars were bright,
And the moon shone o'er the battlefield,
When the unjust cause of a tryant's might
Was crushed by the weight of freedom's shield.

Years passed by and a people great
Had arisen in a mighty land,
And peace and hope and might they date
From a contest gained by a gallant band.

Upon the waste so stained with blood,
Beside a great and rushing stream,
A worn and weary soldier stood,
Like a phantom raised in a feverish dream.

As the winds of winter by him course,
And curl the foam on the billow's crest,
Naught can oppose their onward force,
They carry a groan from the soldier's breast.

The scenes of the past before him glow,
While memory's rays upon them beam,
And the waste — before — is crowded now
And polished arms before him gleam.

Through the vault of heaven the bugles call,
The eager troops to the conflict pour,
Like grass before the scythe they fall,
Mowed down — as the cannons loudly roar.

As the moon beams on their armor dance,
Springing like beast from out his lair,
Each grasping close his deadly lance,
The shadowy horsemen fast appear.

As in their crowded ranks they stream,
Now loudly swells the battle cry,
Floating in air their banners gleam,
With clashing swords is the tumult high.

See the old man stands with kindling eyes,
And lifting high his hoary head,
His upraised arm he scarcely stays, —
'T is but the battle of the dead .

The night has passed — the morn has come,
With rosy hue the east is flushed.
And on that spot seemed nature dumb,
So tranquil was the scene and hushed.

When mortals by the wayside passed,
The soldier's last deep breath had flown,
With naught to cheer save the midnight blast,
On the battlefield had he died — alone.