Nor alone the State's Eclipse; But tears in hard eyes gather-- And on rough and bearded lips, Of the regiments and the ships-- "Oh, our dear Father!" And methinks of all the million That looked on the dark dead face, 'Neath its sable-plumed pavilion, The crone of a humbler race Is saddest of all to think on, And the old swart lips that said, Sobbing, "Abraham Lincoln! Oh, he is dead, he is dead!" Hush! let our heavy souls To-day be glad; for again The stormy music swells and rolls, Stirring the hearts of men. And under the Nation's Dome, They've guarded so well and long, Our boys come marching home, Two hundred thousand strong. All in the pleasant month of May, With war-worn colors and drums, Still through the livelong summer's day, Regiment, regiment comes. Like the tide, yesty and barmy, That sets on a wild lee-shore, Surge the ranks of an army Never reviewed before! Who shall look on the like again, Or see such host of the brave? A mighty River of marching men Rolls the Capital through-- Rank on rank, and wave on wave, Of bayonet-crested blue! How the chargers neigh and champ, (Their riders weary of camp), With curvet and with caracole!-- The cavalry comes with thunderous tramp, And the cannons heavily roll. And ever, flowery and gay, The Staff sweeps on in a spray Of tossing forelocks and manes; But each bridle-arm has a weed Of funeral, black as the steed That fiery Sheridan reins. Grandest of mortal sights The sun-browned ranks to view-- The Colors ragg'd in a hundred fights, And the dusty Frocks of Blue! And all day, mile on mile, With cheer, and waving, and smile, The war-worn legions defile Where the nation's noblest stand; And the Great Lieutenant looks on, With the Flower of a rescued Land,-- For the terrible work is done, And the Good Fight is won For God and for Fatherland. So, from the fields they win, Our men are marching home, A million are marching home! To the cannon's thundering din, And banners on mast and dome,-- And the ships come sailing in With all their ensigns dight, As erst for a great sea-fight. Let every color fly, Every pennon flaunt in pride; Wave, Starry Flag, on high! Float in the sunny sky, Stream o'er the stormy tide! For every stripe of stainless hue, And every star in the field of blue, Ten thousand of the brave and true Have laid them down and died. And in all our pride to-day We think, with a tender pain, Of those so far away They will not come home again.