It is difficult to realize in the time of an action, the extreme peril one’s life is in. Death there seems of less consequence than anywhere else, one gets so used to it. Let a railroad accident happen, or a factory tumble to the ground, mangling a great many, and terrifying numbers more, and the whole country shudders, but the same number may be killed and maimed in a brisk skirmish, and the affair is very ‘brilliant.’ Such is the acknowledged difference, and it well that it should be so. But when the excitement is over and we go back to camp and see so many comrades whose society was our pleasure, missing, we feel very keenly the loss we have sustained.
| By the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, Asleep are the ranks of the dead: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Under the one, the Blue, Under the other, the Gray These in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat, All with the battle-blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgement-day Under the laurel, the Blue, Under the willow, the Gray. From the silence of sorrowful hours The desolate mourners go, Lovingly laden with flowers Alike for the friend and the foe; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgement-day; Under the roses, the Blue, Under the lilies, the Gray. So with an equal splendor, The morning sun-rays fall, With a touch impartially tender, On the blossoms blooming for all: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Broidered with gold, the Blue, Mellowed with gold, the Gray. So, when the summer calleth, On forest and field of grain, With an equal murmur falleth The cooling drip of the rain: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment -day, Wet with the rain, the Blue Wet with the rain, the Gray. Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done, In the storm of the years that are fading No braver battle was won: Under the sod adn the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Under the blossoms, the Blue, Under the garlands, the Gray No more shall the war cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever When they laurel the graves of our dead! Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day, Love and tears for the Blue, Tears and love for the Gray. |
