1 ’Tis eve; one brightly beaming star
Shines from the eastern heav’n afar,
To light the footsteps of the brave,
Slow marching to a comrade’s grave.

2 And whose the form, all stark and cold,
Thus ready for the loosened mould,
And stretched upon so rude a bier?
Thine, soldier, thine! the Volunteer.

3 Poor Volunteer! the shot, the blow,
Or swift disease hath laid him low;
And few his early loss deplore—
His battle fought, his journey o’er.

4 Alas! no wife’s fond arms caressed,
His cheek no tender mother pressed;
No pitying soul was by his side,
As lonely in his tent he died.

5 He died—the Volunteer—at noon;
At evening came the small platoon
That soon will leave him to his rest,
With sods upon his manly breast.

6 Hark to their fire! his only knell—
More solemn than the passing bell;
For ah! it tells a spirit flown,
Unshriven, to the home unknown.

7 Alas! like him, how many more
Like cold upon Potomac’s shore!
How many green unnoted graves
Are bordered by those placid waves.

8 Wake! soldier, wake! from sorrow flee,
And sin and strife. ’Tis well with thee.
’Tis well; though not a single tear
Laments the buried Volunteer!