Oh! they wakened in my spirit, Like the beautiful in art, Such a busy, busy thinking-- Such a dreaminess of heart, That I sat among the shadows, With my spirit all astray; Thinking only--thinking only Of the soldiers far away;
Of the tents beneath the moonlight, Of the stirring tattoo's sound, Of the soldier in his blanket, In his blanket on the ground; Of the icy winter coming, Of the cold bleak winds that blow, And the soldier in his blanket, In his blanket on the snow.
Of the blight upon the heather, And the frost upon the hill, And the whistling, whistling ever, And the never, never still; Of the little leaflets falling, With the sweetest, saddest sound-- And the soldier--oh! the soldier, In his blanket on the ground.
Thus I lingered in my dreaming, In my dreaming far away, Till the spirit's picture-painting Seemed as vivid as the day; And the moonlight faded softly From the window opened wide, And the faithful, faithful pointer Nestled closer by my side.
And I knew that 'neath the starlight, Though the chilly frosts may fall, That the soldier will be dreaming, Dreaming often of us all. So I gave my spirit's painting Just the breathing of a sound, For the dreaming, dreaming soldier, In his slumber on the ground.
Gather round him where he's lying, Hush your footsteps, whisper low, For a soldier here is dying, In the sunset's radiant glow.
Beating, beating, slowly beating, Runs the life-blood through his frame; Swift the soldier's breath is fleeting, And he calls his mother's name:
"Mother, mother, come and kiss me, Ere my spirit fades away, For I know you oft will miss me, When you watch the sinking day.
"Brother, sister, nearer, nearer! Place, oh, place your hands in mine, You whose love than life was dearer, Let your arms around me twine.
"Father, see the sun is fading From the hill-tops of the west, And the valley night is shading-- Farewell, loved ones, I'm at rest."
Dying, dying! yes, he's dying! Close the eyelids, let him rest; No more sorrow, no more sighing, E'er again shall heave his breast.
Sleeping, sleeping, calmly sleeping, In the church-yard cold and drear, And the wintry winds are heaping O'er him leaflets brown and sear.
And he's resting, where forever Clang of trumpet, roll of drum, Roar of cannon, never, never, Never more to him shall come.