Nebraska Advertiser

Coming Home.
They are coming home, coming home,
Brother and lover, father and son,
Friend and foe, they are coming home,
To rest, for their work is done.
They come from hospital, picket and field,
From iron boat and frowning fort,
In silent companies, slowly wheeled,
In the rhythm of a solemn thought.
This was a father of women and men,
Gray-haired, but hale and strong of limb;
The bayonet flashed and flashed again,
And the old man's eyes grew dim.
Here was a form of manly grace;
The bomb-shell groaning through the air
Drenched with his blood a pictured face,
And a curl of silken hair.
This was a bright-eyed venturesome boy;
Back from the perilous picket guard
They bore him, waked from his dream of joy
And thus, for three days lingering,
He talked in wandering, rapid speech,
Of mother, and home, and the cooling spring.
His lips could almost reach.
They are coming home, but not as they went,
With the flying flag, and stirring band,
With the tender word and message sent
From the distant, waving hand.
Up the steps and into the door,
With hidden faces our loved ones come;
We may cry their names out o'er and o'er,
But their pallid lips are dumb.
O, friends, untimely snatched from hence.
May we find, beyond heaven's lowering dome,
Some blissful future recompense,
For this sorrowful coming home!