George Lunt (1803–1885)

BREATHE, trumpets, breathe slow notes of saddest wailing;

Sadly responsive peal, ye muffled drums.

Comrades, with downcast eyes and muskets trailing,

Attend him home: the youthful warrior comes,

Upon his shield, upon his shield returning,

Borne from the field of battle where he fell.

Glory and grief together clasped in mourning,

His fame, his fate, with sobs exulting tell.

Wrap round his breast the flag his breast defended,—

His country’s flag, in battle’s front unrolled:

For it he died,—on earth forever ended,

His brave young life lives in each sacred fold.

With proud, proud tears, by tinge of shame untainted,

Bear him, and lay him gently in his grave.

Above the hero write, the young, half-sainted,

“His country asked his life, his life he gave.”