Wake, soldier, wake, thy war-horse waits To bear thee to the battle back; Thou slumberest at a foeman's gates,- Thy dog would break thy bivouac; Thy plume is trailing in the dust And thy red falchion gathering rust.

Gayly we glide in the gaze of the world With streamers afloat and with canvas unfurled, All gladness and glory to wandering eyes, Yet chartered by sorrow and f…

The tomb of him who would have made The world too glad and free.

He stood beside a cottage lone And listened to a lute, One summer's eve, when the breeze was gone, And the nightingale was mute.