 | [Army vespers, in] The spirit of the fair. No. 16. Friday, April 22, 1864 |  |
187
ARMY VESPERS.
The night is dark and cold,
The lamp has lost its light;
The chime of midnight its tale has told,
But slumber has taken flight.
The lamp has lost its light;
The chime of midnight its tale has told,
But slumber has taken flight.
I cannot, cannot sleep,
My sad soul flies away,
O'er the wide and restless deep,
O'er mountain, lake, and bay.
My sad soul flies away,
O'er the wide and restless deep,
O'er mountain, lake, and bay.
Away to the lonely strand,
By the lonely glittering sea,
Where stretches a waste of desert sand—
The island of Tybee.
By the lonely glittering sea,
Where stretches a waste of desert sand—
The island of Tybee.
Silent the cannon's roar,
Silent and stern the ranks,
Save sentry-steps on the quiet shore,
And the sea on its crumbling banks.
Silent and stern the ranks,
Save sentry-steps on the quiet shore,
And the sea on its crumbling banks.
Away where wild winds rave
Through the war-ships as they go,
And sand or sea is the freeman's grave,
By the Gulf of Mexico.
Through the war-ships as they go,
And sand or sea is the freeman's grave,
By the Gulf of Mexico.
On to the mighty stream,
The river of the West,
Its ripples lit by the camp-fire's gleam,
And the gunboats on its breast.
The river of the West,
Its ripples lit by the camp-fire's gleam,
And the gunboats on its breast.
Where the old flag southward flies,
Their stripes beside our stars,
Its blue field for the Southern skies,
The North-light for its bars.
Their stripes beside our stars,
Its blue field for the Southern skies,
The North-light for its bars.
Back to the sacred soil,
By many a fortressed hill,
Where the slave hath found a right to toil,
And the bayonet might to till!
By many a fortressed hill,
Where the slave hath found a right to toil,
And the bayonet might to till!
Oh, sleep, that hast fled away
From my fevered eyes and brow,
Though never thou comest to me again,
Go bless the soldiers now!
From my fevered eyes and brow,
Though never thou comest to me again,
Go bless the soldiers now!
Light on the weary eyes,
Like a mother's nestling kiss,
Fill every heart with sweet surprise,
And home-born dreams of bliss.
Like a mother's nestling kiss,
Fill every heart with sweet surprise,
And home-born dreams of bliss.
They fight, but we must weep
For our boys that are gone and dead,
God send the sleep we cannot sleep
To every soldier's bed!
For our boys that are gone and dead,
God send the sleep we cannot sleep
To every soldier's bed!
| [Army vespers, in] The spirit of the fair. No. 16. Friday, April 22, 1864 | |