Through sor­row’s night and dan­ger’s path,
Amid the deep­en­ing gloom,
We sol­diers of an in­jured king
Are march­ing to the tomb.

There, when the tur­moil is no more,
And all our pow­ers de­cay,
Our cold re­mains in so­li­tude
Shall sleep the years away.

Our la­bors done, se­cure­ly laid
In this our last re­treat,
Unheeded o’er our si­lent dust
The storms of life shall beat.

Yet not thus life­less, thus in­ane,
The vi­tal spark shall lie,
For o’er life’s wreck that spark shall rise
To seek its kin­dred sky.

These ash­es too, this lit­tle dust,
Our Fa­ther’s care shall keep,
Till the last an­gel rise, and break
The long and drea­ry sleep.

Then love’s soft dew o’er ev­ery eye
Shall shed its mild­est rays,
And dust, long si­lent, loud will burst
With shouts of end­less praise.