With one last gnash, with one last wrench,
I sped my last, sure shot.
“The thing that lies on the sodden ground
Like a wrack of the whirlwind’s track,
Your men have made of the body of me,—
But they could not call you back!
“In that black game I won, I won!
But had you worked your will,
Speak now the shame that you would have done
By the blockhouse on the hill!”