Ii

What is the sound we hear? Never the fall of a tear; For grief repressed In every breast More honors the man we revere. Rising from East and West, There echoes afar or near-- From the cool, sad North and the burning South-- A sound long since grown dear, When brave ranks faced the cannon's mouth And died for a faith austere: The tread of marching men, A steady tramp of feet That never flinched nor faltered when The drums of duty beat. With sable hats whose shade Falls from the cord of gold On every time-worn face; With tattered flags, in black enrolled, Beneath whose folds they warred of old; Forward, firmly arrayed, With a sombre, martial grace; So the Grand Army moves Commanded by the dead, Following him whose name it loves, Whose voice in life its footsteps led.