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 We may scourge from the spirit all thought of ill
In the midnight of grief held fast,
And yet, oh Brothers, be loyal still
To the sacred and stainless Past.
She is glancing now from the vapor and cloud,
From the waning mansion of Mars,
And the pride of her beauty is wanly bowed,
And her eyes are misted stars.
And she speaks in a voice that is sad as death,
“There is duty still to be done,
Thoa the trumpet of onset has spent its breath,
And the battle been lost and won.”
And she points with a trembling hand below,
To the wasted and worn array
Of the heroes who strove in the morning glow
For the grandeur that crowned “the Grey.”
Oh God! they come not as once they came
In the magical years of yore;
For the trenchant sword and soul of flame
Shall quiver and flash no more.
Alas! for the broken and battered hosts:
Frail wrecks from a gory sea;
Though pale as a band in the realm of ghosts,
Salute them. They fought with Lee.
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