University of Virginia Library

38   Now of the old war-days, the defeat at Brooklyn,
Washington stands inside the lines — he stands on the      intrench'd hills, amid a crowd of officers,
His face is cold and damp — he cannot repress the      weeping drops,
He lifts the glass perpetually to his eyes — the color is      blanch'd from his cheeks,
He sees the slaughter of the southern braves confided      to him by their parents.
39  The same, at last and at last, when peace is declared,
He stands in the room of the old tavern — the well-     beloved soldiers all pass through,
The officers speechless and slow draw near in their      turns,
The chief encircles their necks with his arm, and      kisses them on the cheek,
He kisses lightly the wet cheeks one after another —      he shakes hands, and bids good-by to the army.