Behind you lie your cheerful homes,
And all of sweet or fair,--
The only remnants earth has left
Of Eden-life, are there.

Ye know that many a once bright cheek
Consuming care, makes wan;
Ye know the old, dear happiness
That blest your hearths,--is gone.

Ye see your comrades smitten down,--
The young, the good, the brave,--
Ye feel, the turf ye tread to-day,
May be to-morrow's grave.

Yet not a murmur meets the ear,
Nor discontent has sway,
And not a sullen brow is seen,
Through all the camp to-day.

No Greek, in Greece's palmiest days,
His javelin ever threw,
Impelled by more heroic zeal,
Or nobler aim than you.

No mailed warrior ever bore
Aloft his shining lance,
More proudly through the tales that fire
The page of old romance.