Classic Poem

At hush of night, when all things seem
To sleep, I waken and look forth,
And lo! I hear, or else I dream,
The tramp of Legions o'er the earth!
And in the dark
Hush'd heavens I mark
Sentinel lights that flash o'erhead
From lonely bivouacs of the Dead!

Then, while the spectral Hosts sweep by,
Unseen yet heard in the under gloom,
I see against the dim blue sky
A Skeleton in cloak and plume;
Beneath him crowd,
Like cloud on cloud,
Sleeping on that great plain of dread,
Dark countless legions of the Dead.

No sound disturbs those camps so chill,
No banner waves, no clarions ring,—
Imperial Death sits cloaked and still
With eyes turned earthward, listening
To that great throng
Which sweeps along
With battle-cry and thunder-tread,
To join the bivouacs of the Dead!

Sentinel-stars their vigil keep!
The hooded Spectre sitteth dumb,
While still to join the Hosts asleep
The Legions of the Living come:
'Neath Heaven's blue arch
They march and march,
Ever more silent as they tread
More near the bivouacs of the Dead.

But when they reach those bivouacs chill
Their cries are hush'd, their heads are bow'd,
And with their comrades, slumbering still,
Silent they blend, like cloud with cloud:
Light answers light
Across the night,—
While quietly they seek their bed
Among the watch-fires of the Dead!
And night by night the Leader's form
Loomsblack 'gainst heavens cold and dim,
While evermore in silence swarm
The human Hosts to rest with him;
Hush'd grow their cries,
Closèd their eyes,
Silent until some trumpet dread
Shall wake the Legions of the Dead!