THE OFFICER’S FUNERAL.
|Hark! ’tis the shrill trumpet calling,|
It pierceth the soft summer air!
Tears from each comrade are falling,
For the widow and orphan are there:
Our bayonets earthward are turning,
And the drum’s muffled breath rolls around,
But he hears not the voice of their mourning,
Nor awakes to the bugle’s shrill sound.
Sleep, soldier! tho’ many regret thee,
Who stand by thy cold bier to-day,
Soon, soon shall the kindest forget thee,
And thy name from the earth pass away;
The man thou did’st love as a brother,
A friend in thy place will have gained;
Thy dog will keep watch for another,
And thy steed by a stranger be reined.
But tho’ many now weep for thee sadly,
Soon joyous as ever shall be;
Tho’ thy bright orphan boy may laugh gladly
As he sits on some kind comrade’s knee,
There is one who will still do her duty
Of tears for the true and the brave,
As when first in the bloom of her beauty,
She weeps o’er her brave soldier’s grave!