The Advance-Guard.

In the dream of the Northern poets,         The braves who in battle die     Fight on in shadowy phalanx         In the field of the upper sky;     And as we read the sounding rhyme,         The reverent fancy hears     The ghostly ring of the viewless swords         And the clash of the spectral spears.     We think with imperious questionings         Of the brothers whom we have lost,     And we strive to track in death's mystery         The flight of each valiant ghost.     The Northern myth comes back to us,         And we feel, through our sorrow's night,     That those young souls are striving still         Somewhere for the truth and light.     It was not their time for rest and sleep;         Their hearts beat high and strong;     In their fresh veins the blood of youth         Was singing its hot, sweet song.     The open heaven bent over them,         'Mid flowers their lithe feet trod,     Their lives lay vivid in light, and blest         By the smiles of women and God.     Again they come!    Again I hear         The tread of that goodly band;     I know the flash of Ellsworth's eye         And the grasp of his hard, warm hand;     And Putnam, and Shaw, of the lion-heart,         And an eye like a Boston girl's;     And I see the light of heaven which lay         On Ulric Dahlgren's curls.     There is no power in the gloom of hell         To quench those spirits' fire;     There is no power in the bliss of heaven         To bid them not aspire;     But somewhere in the eternal plan         That strength, that life survive,     And like the files on Lookout's crest,         Above death's clouds they strive.     A chosen corps, they are marching on         In a wider field than ours;     Those bright battalions still fulfil         The scheme of the heavenly powers;     And high brave thoughts float down to us,         The echoes of that far fight,     Like the flash of a distant picket's gun         Through the shades of the severing night.     No fear for them!    In our lower field         Let us keep our arms unstained,     That at last we be worthy to stand with them         On the shining heights they've gained.     We shall meet and greet in closing ranks         In Time's declining sun,     When the bugles of God shall sound recall         And the battle of life be won.