The Silent Victors
by James Whitcomb Riley

Deep, tender, firm and true, the Nation's heart
Throbs for her gallant heroes passed away,
Who in grim Battle's drama played their part,
And slumber here to-day -

Warm hearts that beat their lives out at the shrine
Of Freedom, while our country held its breath
As brave battalions wheeled themselves in line
And marched upon their death:

When Freedom's Flag, its natal wounds Scarce healed,
Was torn from peaceful winds and flung again
To shudder in the storm of battlefield -
The elements of men, -

When every star that glittered was a mark
For Treason's ball, and every rippling bar
Of red and white was sullied with the dark
And purple stain of war;

When angry guns, like famished beasts of prey,
Were bowling o'er their gory feast of lives,
And sending dismal echoes far away
To mothers, maids and wives: -

The mother, kneeling in the empty night,
With pleading hands uplifted for the son
Who, even as she prayed, had fought the fight -
The victory had won:

The wife, with trembling hand that wrote to say
The babe was waiting for the sire's caress -
The letter meeting that upon the way, -
The babe was fatherless:

The maiden, with her lips, in fancy, pressed
Against the brow once dewy with her breath,
Now lying numb