There's no need to tell the story
That we've known so long and well;
But our blood will pulse yet quicker,
And our loyal hearts will swell,
Half with pride, and half with sadness,
At the memory of that day
When our fond farewells were spoken,
And our soldiers marched away.
In his grave beside the river
Slept our own beloved Stark;
And it seemed as if the war-cry,
Piercing to his grave so dark,
Might arouse the grand old hero,
Lying there so still and calm,
So he'd wake, and don his armor,
At the shrill notes of alarm!
But he stirred not from his slumber, -
Though his blessing seemed to rest,
Like a calm, inspiring presence,
In each gallant soldier's breast,
As they marched away to battle,
With a purpose stern and high
Stamped upon the earnest features,
Mirrored from the glancing eye.
Proudly did we scan the record
Of their bravery day by day;
Sadly did we hear the tidings,
Wafted often from the fray,
That another cherished hero,
In the battle stricken down,
Waiting not for earthly laurels,
Had received a martyr's crown.
Manfully they fought and bravely, -
Boys of ours who wore the blue, -
Through their hearts were in the Northland,
Where the clear, cool breezes blew.
In their dreams they saw loved faces,
True and tender as of yore,
And the old, familiar places,
They might look on nevermore;
Saw the pines and chestnuts waving
On the old New Hampshire hills,
And the scarlet cardinal flowers
Growing down beside the rills;
Saw the grim old Uncanoonues,
Rising upward in their pride, -
Nearer still, the well-known river,
Sweeping onward, deep and wide.
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