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Rh The mourner turns—looks—listens, and is gone, In quiet heedlessness the Boy sleeps on.

Nearer the bugle’s echo comes,
 * Nearer the fife is singing,

Near and more near the roll of drums
 * Through the air is ringing.

War! it is thy music proud,
 * Wakening the brave-hearted,

Memories—hopes—a glorious crowd,
 * At its call have started.

Memories of our sires of old,
 * Who, oppression-driven,

High their rainbow flag unrolled
 * To the sun and sky of heaven.

Memories of the true and brave,
 * Who, at Honor’s bidding,

Stepped, their Country’s life to save,
 * To war as to their wedding.

Memories of many a battle-plain,
 * Where, their life-blood flowing,

Made green the grass, and gold the grain,
 * Above their grave-mounds growing.