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Rh Till it reached the Capitol square, and wheeled,

And there in the moonlight stood revealed

A well-known form that in State and field

Had led our patriot sires;

Whose face was turned to the sleeping camp,

Afar through the river's fog and damp

That showed no flicker, nor waning lamp,

Nor wasted bivouac fires.

And I saw a phantom army come,

With never a sound of fife or drum,

But keeping time to a throbbing hum

Of wailing and lamentation;

The martyred heroes of Malvern Hill,

Of Gettysburg and Chancellorsville,

The men whose wasted figures fill

The patriot graves of the nation.

And there came the nameless dead—the men

Who perished in fever swamp and fen,

The slowly-starved of the prison-pen;

And, marching beside the others,

Came the dusky martyrs of Pillow's fight,