Silence and Solitude may hint
  (Whose home is in yon piny wood)
What I, though tableted, could never tell—­
The din which here befell,
  And striving of the multitude. 
The iron cones and spheres of death
  Set round me in their rust,
    These, too, if just,
Shall speak with more than animated breath. 
  Thou who beholdest, if thy thought,
Not narrowed down to personal cheer,
Take in the import of the quiet here—­
  The after-quiet—­the calm full fraught;
Thou too wilt silent stand—­
Silent as I, and lonesome as the land.

On Sherman’s Men
who fell in the Assault of Kenesaw Mountain, Georgia.

They said that Fame her clarion dropped
  Because great deeds were done no more—­
That even Duty knew no shining ends,
And Glory—­’twas a fallen star! 
  But battle can heroes and bards restore. 
    Nay, look at Kenesaw: 
Perils the mailed ones never knew
Are lightly braved by the ragged coats of blue,
And gentler hearts are bared to deadlier war.

On the Grave
of a young Cavalry Officer killed in the Valley of Virginia.

Beauty and youth, with manners sweet, and friends—­
  Gold, yet a mind not unenriched had he
Whom here low violets veil from eyes. 
  But all these gifts transcended be: 
His happier fortune in this mound you see.

A Requiem
for Soldiers lost in Ocean Transports.

When, after storms that woodlands rue,
  To valleys comes atoning dawn,
The robins blithe their orchard-sports renew;
  And meadow-larks, no more withdrawn,
Caroling fly in the languid blue;
The while, from many a hid recess,
Alert to partake the blessedness,
The pouring mites their airy dance pursue. 
  So, after ocean’s ghastly gales,
When laughing light of hoyden morning breaks,
      Every finny hider wakes—­
  From vaults profound swims up with glittering scales;
  Through the delightsome sea he sails,
With shoals of shining tiny things
Frolic on every wave that flings
  Against the prow its showery spray;
All creatures joying in the morn,
Save them forever from joyance torn,
  Whose bark was lost where now the dolphins play;
Save them that by the fabled shore,
  Down the pale stream are washed away,
Far to the reef of bones are borne;
  And never revisits them the light,
Nor sight of long-sought land and pilot more;
  Nor heed they now the lone bird’s flight
Round the lone spar where mid-sea surges pour.

On a natural Monument
in a field of Georgia.[21]

No trophy this—­a Stone unhewn,
  And stands where here the field immures
The nameless brave whose palms are won. 
Outcast they sleep; yet fame is nigh—­
  Pure fame of deeds, not doers;
Nor deeds of men who bleeding die
  In cheer of hymns that round them float: 
In happy dreams such close the eye.