Where are my comrades who twelve months ago
    In youthful vigor left their native land?
   Alas! The greater part have been laid low
   By lingering sickness or a hostile hand.
   They rushed to battle at their country's call,
   Forsaking those whom most they loved on earth.
   In death they triumphed, yet their early fall
   Has mingled sorrow with our notes of mirth.

  Danger defied in many a varied form,
 And numerous sufferings on the weary way;
 The scorching sunbeam and the pelting storm
 Could not deter them, nor their progress stay.
  Although they perished in the closing fight,
 In shouts of triumph raised their latest breath,
 Convinced that History with her verses bright
 Around their names a myrtle crown would wreathe.

At the voice of sweet Springtime kind nature awakens
From her death-like repose to reblossom once more,
She wreathes herself with a garland of flowers
And scatters perfume to the farthermost shore.

The insect tribe from their wintry tomb
Awake to new life and come forth at her call,
And echoing notes in the woodlands are heard
To welcome her coming, a joy to us all.

Oh Spring! Could thy Springtime voice but awaken
The loved and the lost who have faded and gone,
But though thou wilt scatter profusely above them
Thy beauty and fragrance, yet still they sleep on.

But, Oh! Not forever! They too shall awaken
And arise in new beauty and life from the tomb,
And for them in Heaven unfading eternal
A Springtime of beauty forever shall bloom.