THE SOLDIER'S GRAVE
Tread lightly, ‘tis a soldiers grave,
A lonely mossy mount,
And yet to hearts like mine and thine
It should be holy ground.
Speak softly, let no careless laugh,
No idle, thoughtless jest,
Escape your lips where sweetly sleeps
The hero in his rest.
For him no reveille will beat
When morning beams shall come;
For him, at night, no tattoo rolls
Its thunder from the drum.
No costly marble marks the place,
Recording deeds of fame;
But rudely on that bending tree,
Is carved the soldier’s name.
A name, not dear to us, but, oh!
There may be lips that breathe
That name as sacredly and low,
As vesper prayers at eve.
There may be brows that wear for him
The morning cypress vine,
And hearts that make this lonely grave
A holy pilgrim shrine.
There may be eyes that joyed to gaze
With love into his own;
Now keeping midnight vigils long
With silent grief, alone.
There may be hands now clasped in prayer,
This soldier’s hand had pressed,
And cheeks washed pale by sorrow’s tears,
His own cold cheek caressed.
Tread lightly! For a man bequeathed,
Ere laid beneath this sod,
His ashes to his native land
His gallant soul to God.
Written by Eliza Jane Nicholson
(1843-1896)
(The Poet Pearl Rivers)
New Orleans & Picayune MS