Classic Poem

'Tis the beat of the drum, 't is the reveille,
From the camp and field of the Past;
'T is an echo that rolls to the warrior years,
Of the sound of a bugle blast.

'T is the clashing of steel, and the bayonet's gleam
That glints on the ambient air,
And the Southern Cross with its starry field
Sweeps the breeze like a patriot's prayer.

'T is the charging of Death where Justice drooped
On her altar bathed in blood;
'T is the baying of guns, like the hounds unleashed,
That swells on the breast of the flood.

'T is the storm that breaks through the mist and the rime,
And the clouds drop their leaden hail;
'T is the " Rebel yell " through the pattering rain
From the souls that could never quail!

Yea, the steel meets heart, and the heart greets steel,
In the passions of hate — of death,
And they fall in the lines like the wind-swung grain,
At the sweep of the sickle's breath.

And the riderless horses charge, unreined,
Through the din of the cannon's blast;
And the horseless riders have closed the line,
Where the mowing scythe has passed!

But the carnage dies, and the day falls asleep,
Where the West draws her golden bars;
And the smoke that has kissed both the Blue and the Gray
Has left them alone — with the stars.

'T is the hush of the night, 't is the drum's tattoo,
'T is the roll-call deep and clear,
And the mounds that billow the grassy slope,
'Neath the violets, answer, " Here! "