But harps are in every land
That await a voice that sings,
And a master-hand — but the humblest hand
May gently touch its strings.
I sing with a voice too low
To be heard beyond to-day,
In minor keys of my people's woe,
But my songs pass away.
To-morrow hears them not —
To-morrow belongs to Fame —
My songs, like the birds', will be forgot,
And forgotten shall be my name.
And yet who knows? Betimes
The grandest songs depart,
While the gentle, humble, and low-toned rhymes
Will echo from heart to heart.
But, oh! if in song or speech,
In major or minor key,
My voice could over the ages reach,
I would whisper the name of Lee.
In the night of our defeat
Star after star had gone,
But the way was bright to our soldiers' feet
Where the star of Lee led on.
But sudden there came a cloud,
Out rung a nation's knell;
Our cause was wrapped in its winding shroud,
All fell when the great Lee fell.
From his men, with scarce a word,
Silence when great hearts part!
But we know he sheathed his stainless sword
In the wound of a broken heart.
He fled from Fame; but Fame
Sought him in his retreat,
Demanding for the world one name
Made deathless by defeat.
Nay, Fame! success is best!
All lost! and nothing won:
North, keep the clouds that flush the West,
We have the sinking sun.