Hezekiah Butterworth

Or where the ring-dove's notes, sweet summer's augur,
Float from the hillsides o'er the Tennessee,
Or by the James, or by the Chickamauga,
Or where the Gulf winds dip the sails alee,

Or where the Schuylkill cleaves the vernal shadows,
Or stretches far the commerce-gathering arms
Of the broad Hudson, through the freshened meadows
Of village rims and harvest-blooming farms,

Where'er we meet the friends once fondly cherished,
And hands all warm with old affection take,
Breathe ye with love the names of those who perished
And sleep in graves Unknown, for Freedom's sake.

The wooded slope of Chattanooga shadows
The Level fields where they repose, alone;
In serried rows in Arlington's green meadows,
Their headstones speak the one sad word, "Unknown"

Balm-breathing Junes, to old home-farms returning,
Bear from green fields no pleasant airs to them,
Nor rose and lily's odorous censers burning
In morning suns, from dew-bejewelled stem.

The west winds blow by Chickamauga River,
The south winds play the Rapidan beside;
But they are dead, and we shall see them never,
Till heaven's armies follow Him who died.

Peace! Let us mingle love's sweet tears with pity's
For those who bought the heritage we own,
Who gave their all, and in death's silent cities
Have but the nameless epitaph, Unknown.