ghost,
The ghost of a love that is gone.
And he led me out to the arbor, wife,
Where with myrtles I twined your hair;
And he seated me down on the old stone step,
And left me musing there.

The sun went down as it used to do,
And sunk in the sea of night;
The two bright stars that we called ours
Came slowly unto my sight;
But the one that was mine went under a cloud--
Went under a cloud, alone;
And a tear that I wouldn't have shed for the world,
Fell down on the old gray stone.

But there be words can ne'er be unsaid,
And deeds can ne'er be undone,
Except perhaps in another world,
Where life's once more begun.
And maybe some time in the time to come,
When a few more years are sped,
We'll love again as we used to love,
In the house where we were wed.

OUR ARMY OF THE DEAD.

By the edge of the Atlantic, where the waves of Freedom roar,
And the breezes of the ocean chant a requiem to the shore,
On the Nation's eastern hill-tops, where its corner-stone was laid,
On the mountains of New England, where our fathers toiled and prayed,
Mid old Key-stone's rugged riches, which the miner's hand await,
Mid the never-ceasing commerce of the busy Empire State,
With the country's love and honor on each brave, devoted head,
Is a band of noble heroes--is our Army of the Dead.

On the lake-encircled homestead of the thriving Wolverine,
On the beauteous Western prairies, with their carpeting of green,
By the sweeping Mississippi, long our country's pride and boast,
On the rugged Rocky Mountains, and the weird Pacific coast,
In the listless, sunny Southland, with its blossoms and its vines,
On the bracing Northern hill-tops, and amid their murmuring pines,
Over all our happy country--over all our Nation spread,
Is a band of noble heroes--is our Army of the Dead.

Not with musket, and with saber, and with glad heart beating fast;
Not with cannon that had thundered till the bloody war was past;
Not with voices that are shouting with the vim of victory's note;
Not with armor gayly glistening, and with flags that proudly float;
Not with air of martial vigor, nor with steady, soldier tramp,
Come they grandly marching to us--for the boys are all in camp.
With forgetfulness upon it--each within his earthy bed,
Waiting for his marching orders--is our Army of the Dead.

Fast asleep the boys are lying, in their low and narrow tents,
And no battle-cry can wake them, and no orders call them hence;
And the yearnings of the mo