The sun droops low to westward, The stars straggle out in the sky; The breeze creeping after the shadows Goes shuddering fitfully by. The crowd has gone, not a murmur's Astir in the desolate place, And only a squadron of flowers Keeps watch at the statue's base.
No longer the sound of music Gives measure for reverent tread Of maidens tender and matrons O'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 darkness A promise of love to fulfill.
And he keeps watch with the blossoms Who charged in the thick of the fight, His heart the "gray" is still wearing, He's sentinel here to-night. A warrior feeble and weary In the life of the day no part, But a deathless love is thrilling The veteran's changeless heart.
The light dies down in the heavens, A radiance, flickering, dim, Is a-tremble over the hillocks As if it were beckoning him. They 're coming, his comrades loyal, Faint quivers along the grass He hears as the spectral army In 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 flutter Affrighted, '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 waftings Of tent fires smouldering low, Like smoke blown far from battle Adrift on the breezes slow.
All the night's instinct with memories Of deeds of highest emprise, Of whisperings of wondrous valor, And echoes of battle cries. They live again in the glory Of glad and exultant days, When fortunes of war seemed blessing The path of our valiant "grays."
Just once each year, when the faithful This day to their memory give, They camp 'mong their tents of em'rald For 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 nothing That's sweeter than love to them still.
And when Peace, who keepeth eternal Her 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's Astir in the desolate place; And only a squadron of flowers Keeps watch at the statue's base.
