Shiloh.

Skimming lightly, wheeling still,

The swallows fly low

Over the field in clouded days,

The forest-field of Shiloh —

Over the field where April rain

Solaced the parched ones stretched in pain

Through the pause of night

That followed the Sunday fight

Around the church of Shiloh —

The church so lone, the log-built one,

That echoed to many a parting groan

And natural prayer

Of dying foemen mingled there —

Foemen at morn, but friends at eve —

Fame or country least their care:

( What like a bullet can undeceive! )

But now they lie low,

While over them the swallows skim,

And all is hushed at Shiloh.