Across the earth the fogs hang low and drear, And tardy-footed morn delays to come, While death stalks boldly where the bullets hum, Save when it meeteth one that knows no fear: The bugle-call of Spirit, sweet yet clear, Will pierce the mists of "chaos and old night" Till startled sense awakes to primal light, And e'en the seeming dead shall hear,—shall hear! Then with that glorious dawning will appear, In the pure light that Truth alone doth give, To a clear sight, undimmed by time or tear, That all the seeming dead do live,—do live! Blow, bugle-call Spirit, loud and long, Till earth resounds with Life's glad matin song.
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