The sun droops low to westward,The stars straggle out in the sky;The breeze creeping after the shadowsGoes shuddering fitfully by.The crowd has gone, not a murmur'sAstir in the desolate place,And only a squadron of flowersKeeps watch at the statue's base.
No longer the sound of musicGives measure for reverent treadOf maidens tender and matronsO'er the sacred homes of the dead.But now, when the throng has vanished,The place, grown silent and chill,Comes one through the gloom and darknessA promise of love to fulfill.
And he keeps watch with the blossomsWho charged in the thick of the fight,His heart the "gray" is still wearing,He's sentinel here to-night.A warrior feeble and wearyIn the life of the day no part,But a deathless love is thrillingThe veteran's changeless heart.
The light dies down in the heavens,A radiance, flickering, dim,Is a-tremble over the hillocksAs if it were beckoning him.They 're coming, his comrades loyal,Faint quivers along the grassHe hears as the spectral armyIn review is beginning to pass.
They 're coming! The earth seems to waken;The stars to pale up on high,The moon to shiver and flutterAffrighted, 'way off in the sky.
There 's something alive in the silence!An essence pervading the air!The place is crowded with phantoms,And the dear old "gray" they wear.They come like vaporous waftingsOf tent fires smouldering low,Like smoke blown far from battleAdrift on the breezes slow.
All the night's instinct with memoriesOf deeds of highest emprise,Of whisperings of wondrous valor,And echoes of battle cries.They live again in the gloryOf glad and exultant days,When fortunes of war seemed blessingThe path of our valiant "grays."
Just once each year, when the faithfulThis day to their memory give,They camp 'mong their tents of em'raldFor a night the old life to live.
Of the fragrance, the wine of the flowers,They quaff, each a spirit's fill;For even in Heaven there's nothingThat's sweeter than love to them still.
And when Peace, who keepeth eternalHer watch in high tower above,Sounds a reveille faint and recalls them—All of earth they forget but its love—
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The moon droops low in the heavens,The stars have forgot to shine.There are conscious things in the grasses,A-watch, but they give no sign.The crowd has gone, not a murmur'sAstir in the desolate place;And only a squadron of flowersKeeps watch at the statue's base.
