5. the regiment returned.
by Park Benjamin.
The fife blows shrill, the drum beats loud;I hear the tramp of many feet
Come echoing up the city street,
With cheers and welcomes from the crowd.
It is the regiment returned,
That went away three months ago;
Fearless they met the Southern foe,
And with true patriot ardor burned.
Their looks and dress are somewhat worn,
But every gun is free from rust,
And that is honorable dust
Upon their caps and knapsacks borne.
Their banner still is held on high,
Though soiled with wind, and rain, and smoke,
As bravely as when first it broke
In light like sunrise on the sky.
In the full front of battle shown,
It onward led the serried files
O'er many rough and weary miles,
Through wild, beleaguered paths unknown.
Against its folds the shot were cast,
From hidden batteries, charged with death;
And though its bearer held his breath,
'Twas carried upward to the last.
And now, still marching where it waves,
The bold survivors of the band,
Returning to their own dear land,
Have left behind their comrades' graves.
But, vowing to avenge their loss,
Soon, where those comrades fought and fell,
They'll meet once more, and conquer well
Beneath the Union's starry cross.
'Tis right to welcome home with cheers
These patriot soldiers, fresh from fight;
Though some no longer greet our sight,
But claim their country's grateful tears.
For them we mourn; for these we raise
Our happy plaudits to the sky,
And, as their ranks come marching by,
Reward their courage with our praise.
--N. Y. Evening Post, Aug. 16.