HUSH’D BE THE CAMPS TO-DAY.
(May 4, 1865.)

 

HUSH’D be the camps to-day,
And soldiers let us drape our war-worn weapons,
And each with musing soul retire to celebrate,
Our dear commander’s death.

 

No more for him life’s stormy conflicts,
Nor victory, nor defeat—no more time’s dark events,
Charging like ceaseless clouds across the sky.

 

But sing poet in our name,
Sing of the love we bore him—because you, dweller in camps,
know it truly.

 

As they invault the coffin there,
Sing—as they close the doors of earth upon him—one verse,
For the heavy hearts of soldiers.

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The Open Anthology of Earlier American Literature Copyright © 2016, 2017 by Timothy Robbins is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.

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