Dirge

Toll not the bell and muffle not
The drum, nor fire the funeral shot;
Nor half way hoist our banner now —
Nor weed the arm, nor cloud the brow,—
But high to heaven be raised the eye,
And holy be the rapturous sigh:
And still be cannon, drum, and bell,
Nor let the flag of sorrow tell.

Now low are laid their honored forms,
But from the clods, and dust, and worms,
Their spirits wake, and, breathing, rise
Above the sun's own glorious skies.
And happy be their airy track—
We may not, would not, call them back;—
For patriot hands may clasp with theirs,
And Angel harps may hymn their prayers.