Shiloh. 
By Melville, Herman. 


A Requiem

Skimming lightly, wheeling still,
The swallows fly low
O'er 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 pauses of the 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.