’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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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!