From the shadows of night they called for the dawn
In notes that were subtle and clear,
In a strain of music too exquisite
For the range of mortal ear.
From their leafy columns and battlements
That were moist with the morning dew,
A call for light and a reveille
From the bells of their bugles they blew.

And lo! up the east in the blush of the rose
Came the tremulous light of the morn,
And earth awoke in the fullness of joy
To welcome the day new-born.
In color arrayed on trellis and wall
The heralds stepped into view
And bravely their passionate greetings poured
From their bugles of pink, white and blue.

When up the sky to the throne of light
They had played the god of day,
Like spirits elate with a work well done
They folded their bugles away.--
Up the quiet valley one autumn night
Came the hoar mist grim and slow,
And stilled were the minstrels; their music no more
From the bells of their bugles they blow.