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the deathless battle-field, where all
 * The pulses leap responsive to the beat
 * Of martial music, and amidst the heat

Of mortal strife is heard the inner call, The nation's need—which ever holds in thrall
 * Heroic souls—never to know defeat,
 * But go with high, unshrinking heart to meet

The foe—it would not seem so hard to fall.

But on the fields at home when hope is fled
 * And only ghosts of former joys remain—

God pity those unknown who daily tread
 * The desolate, monotonous ways of pain,

And nightly bivouac with their hosts of dead
 * On silent battle-fields where hearts are slain!