Classic Poem

The sword is sheathed in its scabbard,
The muskets are stacked away;
The cannons are silent and rusted,
And going to decay.

Our battle-field deserted,
Where Spring rains gently fall,
We hear no more the drum-beat,
Nor bugles sum'ning call.

The grass is growing verdant,
Over the many graves
Of heroes brave, who fought to free
The toiling, suff'ring slaves.

How many, oh, how many,
Enlisted in the strife!
Youths into manhood budding,
And men in the prime of life.

Youths whose noble ambitions
And hopes were laid aside;
All for love of their country,
For which many bled and died.

Men who left behind them
Wives and children, and all
That were near and dear and precious,
And went at their country's call.

God bless our dear dead soldiers!
God bless the living ones, too;
Our nation will ever honor
And cherish such heroes true.