But dearly was that conquest bought,
Too well the gallant hero fought
For England, home, and beauty.
He cried, as 'midst the fire he ran,
England shall find that every man
This day will do his duty!"
At last the fatal wound
Which shed dismay around,
The hero's breast received.
"Heaven fights on our side;
The day's our own!" he cried ;
"Now long enough I've lived.
In honor's cause my life was passed,
In honor's cause I fall at last,
For England, home, and beauty!"
Thus ending life as he began;
England confessed that every man
That day had done his duty.
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck the hallowed mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall a while repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there!
Come from my First, ay, come!
For the battle-hour is nigh:
And the screaming trump and thundering drum Are calling thee to die!
Fight, as tny father fought!
Fall, as thy father fell!
Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought ; —
So-onward - and farewell.
Toll ye my Second, toll!
Fling wide the flambeau's light,
And sing the hymn for a parted soul
Beneath the silent night.
With the wreath upon his head,
And the cross upon his breast,
Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed :—
So take him to his rest!
Call ye my Whole, — ay, — call
The lord of lute and lay!
And let him greet the sable pall
With a noble song to-day.
Ay, call him by his name!
Nor fitter hand may crave
To light the flame of a soldier's fame
On the turf of a soldier's grave!
N sunny slope and beechen swell
The shadowed light of evening fell; And, where the maple's leaf was brown, With soft and silent lapse came down The glory that the wood receives, At sunset, in its brazen leaves.
Far upward in the mellow light
Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white,
Around a far-uplifted cone,
In the warm blush of evening shone;
An image of the silver lakes
By which the Indian's soul awakes.
But soon a funeral hymn was heard
Where the soft breath of evening stirred
The tall, gray forest; and a band
Of stern in heart, and strong in hand,
Came winding down beside the wave,
To lay the red chief in his grave.
They sang, that by his native bowers
He stood, in the last moon of flowers,
And thirty snows had not yet shed
Their glory on the warrior's head;
But, as the summer fruit decays,
So died he in those naked days.
A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin
Covered the warrior, and within
Its heavy folds the weapons, made
For the hard toils of war, were laid;
The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds,
And the broad belt of shells and beads.
Before, a dark-haired virgin train
Chanted the death-dirge of the slain;
Behind, the long procession came
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame,
With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief,
Leading the war-horse of their chief.
Stripped of his proud and martial dress,
Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless,
With darting eye and nostril spread,
And heavy and impatient tread,
He came; and oft that eye so proud
Asked for his rider in the crowd.
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