They fought on many a crimsoned field,
They sleep in many a glen;
They marched to glory and to death,
And came not home again;
But Harvard claims them for her roll,
Her roll of Harvard men.

Some in the sunny days of youth;
And some in ripening age,
Went forth with valiant hearts and hopes,
To breast the conflict's rage;
And history every name records
On her immortal page.

Weep at the shrines where once they knelt;
Weep where the heroes sleep;
Weep, when the funeral pomp proceeds,
As vacant firesides weep;
When did thy sickle, mighty Death,
So precious harvest reap?

And sing a paean o'er the dead,
A requiem for the brave;
Sing hymns of cheerful melody
Above each soldier's grave;
In solemn joy, with festal folds,
Let the old banner wave!

Freedom on every bloody field
Has some new triumphs won;
Her honored wreaths are on the brow
Of every favorite son;
And time is reckoned, not by years,
But deeds of valor done.

While fame inscribes ten thousand names,
Along her pillared nave,
Of patriot sons and sires who sleep
In glory's star-gemmed graves,
Of all the host fair Harvard claims
The bravest of the brave.
March 17, 1863