The Wayside Dead

Wayside Dead Eyes turned to'ard the setting sun, In the glowing light, Saw The Place all glorified, Visioned to their sight, Where the outcasts should become Cultured, great and strong; But the way to Pioneers Seemed so hard and long. Many laid them down to sleep, Morning, noon, or eve; Where no taps are ever heard, Where none come to grieve. Generations yet unborn Shall their story tell — Pioneers who saw in dreams Where the Saints should dwell. Summers come and summers go Where the wild flowers bloom; Heedless still they slumber on In the darkened tomb. Rows of mounds define the way Where the pilgrims trod; "Unknown graves" they call them now- Unknown save to God. "Are they dead who silent lie Where the snows drift deep?" Resting where no foe molests, They the watch-fires keep. Wailing breezes seem to ask, "Were their hopes in vain?" They shall rise from sweet repose, They shall live again. Lydia D. Alder.