Skimming lightly， wheeling still，

    The swallows fly low

    Over 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 pause of 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.