A Song Of Truce

Till the tread of marching feet
Through the quiet grass-grown street
Of the little town shall come,
Soldier, rest awhile at home.

While the banners idly hang,
While the bugles do not clang,
While is hushed the clamorous drum,
Soldier, rest awhile at home.

In the breathing-time of Death,
While the sword is in its sheath,
While the cannon's mouth is dumb,
Soldier, rest awhile at home.

Not too long the rest shall be.
Soon enough, to Death and thee,
The assembly call shall come.
Soldier, rest awhile at home.

Robert Fuller Murray

Robert Fuller Murray was a Scottish poet known for his lyrical and expressive poetry. Born on December 26, 1863, in Roxbury, Massachusetts, he moved to Scotland at a young age. Despite a short life, ending on April 15, 1894, Murray left a significant mark with his works, which often reflected themes of nature and human emotion. His poetry is characterized by its elegance and depth of feeling. Murray's influence remained through posthumous publications and collections of his poetry.

Robert Fuller Murray

Yet A Little Sleep

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Indolence

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

The City Of Golf

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

To Number 27X.

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

English

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Decoration Day

Sleep, comrades, sleep and rest
    On this Field of the Grounded Arms,
Where foes no more molest,
    Nor sentry's shot alarms!

Ye have slept on the ground before,
    And started to your feet
At the cannon's sudden roar,
    Or the drum's redoubling beat.

But in this camp of Death
    No sound your slumber breaks;
Here is no fevered breath,
    No wound that bleeds and aches.

All is repose and peace,
    Untrampled lies the sod;
The shouts of battle cease,
    It is the Truce of God!

Rest, comrades, rest and sleep!
    The thoughts of men shall be
As sentinels to keep
    Your rest from danger free.

Your silent tents of green
    We deck with fragrant flowers;
Yours has the suffering been,
    ...

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Soldier's Dream

Our bugles sang truce; for the night-cloud had lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track:
'Twas autumn; and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed my back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;
I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strains that the ...

Thomas Campbell

Dirge For A Soldier

In the east the morning comes,
Hear the rollin' of the drums
On the hill.
But the heart that beat as they beat
In the battle's raging day heat
Lieth still.
Unto him the night has come,
Though they roll the morning drum.

What is in the bugle's blast?
It is: "Victory at last!
Now for rest."
But, my comrades, come behold him,
Where our colors now enfold him,
And his breast
Bares no more to meet the blade,
But lies covered in the shade.

What a stir there is to-day!
They are laying him away
Where he fell.
There the flag goes draped before him;
Now they pile the grave sod o'er him
With a knell.
And he answers to his name
In the higher ranks of fame.

There's a woman left to mourn
For the child that she ha...

Paul Laurence Dunbar

The Burial Of The Scout.

                O not with arms reversed,
        And the slow beating of the muffled drum,
        And funeral marches, bring our hero home
These stormy woods where his young heart was nursed
                Ring with a trumpet burst
Of jubilant music, as if he who lies
        With shrouded face, and lips all white and dumb
Were a crowned conqueror entering paradise,--
        This is his welcome home!

Along the reedy marge of the dim lake,
        I hear the gathering horsemen of the North,
The cavalry of night and tempest wake,--
        Blowing keen bugles as they issue forth,
To guard his homeward march in frost and cold,
                A thousand spearmen bold!

                And the deep-bosomed woods,
With their dishevelled locks all wil...

Kate Seymour Maclean

On A Soldier Fallen In The Philippines

                Streets of the roaring town,
                Hush for him, hush, be still!
                He comes, who was stricken down
                Doing the word of our will.
                Hush! Let him have his state,
                Give him his soldier's crown.
                The grists of trade can wait
                Their grinding at the mill,
        But he cannot wait for his honor, now the trumpet has been blown.
        Wreathe pride now for his granite brow, lay love on his breast of stone.

                Toll! Let the great bells toll
                Till the clashing air is dim.
                Did we wrong this parted soul?
                We will make it up to him.
                Toll! Let him never guess
                What work...

William Vaughn Moody

The Veteran

Underneath the autumn sky,
Haltingly, the lines go by.
Ah, would steps were blithe and gay,
As when first they marched away,
Smile on lip and curl on brow,--
Only white-faced gray-beards now,
Standing on life's outer verge,
E'en the marches sound a dirge.

Blow, you bugles, play, you fife,
Rattle, drums, for dearest life.
Let the flags wave freely so,
As the marching legions go,
Shout, hurrah and laugh and jest,
This is memory at its best.
(Did you notice at your quip,
That old comrade's quivering lip?)

Ah, I see them as they come,
Stumbling with the rumbling drum;
But a sight more sad to me
E'en than these ranks could be
Was that one with cane upraised
Who stood by and gazed and gazed,
Trembling, solemn, lips compresse...

Paul Laurence Dunbar