- [EMBEDDED IMAGE]
- They are embosomed in the sod,
- In still and tranquil leisure,
- Their lives they’ve cast like trifles down,
To serve their country’s pleasure.
- Nor bugle call, nor mother’s voice.
- Nor moody mob’s unreason,
- Shall break their solace and repose
Through swiftly changing season.
- O graves of men who lived and died
- Afar from life’s high pleasures,
- Fold them in tenderly and warm
- With manifold fond measures.