Classic Poem

New England's dead, New England's dead!
On every hill they lie;
On every field of strife, made red,
By bloody victory!
Each valley, where the battle poured
It's red and awful tide,
Beheld the brave New England sword
With slaughter, deeply dyed.
Their bones are on the Northern hill,
And on the Southern plain,
By brook and river, lake, and rill,
And by the roaring main!

The land is holy where they fought,
And holy where they fell;
For by their blood, that land was bought,
The land, they loved so well!
Then glory to that valiant band,
The honored Saviours of the Land!

Oh! few and weak their numbers were;
A handful of brave men;
But to their God they gave their prayer,
And rushed to battle then.
The God of Battles heard their cry
And sent to them the victory.

They left the ploughshare in the mould,
Their flocks and herds, without a fold,
The sickle in the unshorn grain,
The corn, half-garnered, on the plain,
And mustered, in their simple dress,
For wrongs to seek a stern redress,
To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe
To perish, or o'ercome their foe.

And where are ye! O fearless men!
And where are ye to day!
I call, — the hills reply again
That ye have passed away;
That on old Bunker's lonely height,
In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground,
The grass grows green, the harvest bright,
Above each soldier's mound!

The bugle's wild and warlike blast,
Shall muster them no more!
An army now might thunder past,
And they heed not its roar.
The starry flag, 'neath which they fought,
In many a bloody day,
From their old graves, shall rouse them not,
For they have passed away!