Dash,—dash the tear away—
Crush down the pain!
"Dulce et decus," be
Fittest refrain!
Why should the dreary pall
Round him be flung at all?
Did not our hero fall
Gallantly slain?
Catch the last word of cheer
Dropt from his tongue;
Over the volley's din,
Loud be it rung—
"Follow me! follow me!"—
Soldier, oh! could there be
Pæan or dirge for thee,
Loftier sung!
Bold as the Lion-heart,
Dauntless and brave;
Knightly as knightliest
Bayard could crave;
Sweet with all Sidney's grace—
Tender as Hampden's face—
Who—who shall fill the space
Void by his grave?
'Tis not one broken heart,
Wild with dismay;
Crazed with her agony,
Weeps o'er his clay:
Ah! from a thousand eyes
Flow the pure tears that rise;
Widowed Virginia lies
Stricken to-day!
Yet—though that thrilling word—
Accent of dread—
Falls like a thunderbolt,
Bowing each head—
Heroes! be battle done
Bravelier every one,
Nerved by the thought alone—
Ashby is dead!
STONEWALL JACKSON'S GRAVE.[A]
A simple, sodded mound of earth,
Without a line above it;
With only daily votive flowers
To prove that any love it:
The token flag that silently
Each breeze's visit numbers,
Alone keeps martial ward above
The hero's dreamless slumbers.
No name?—no record? Ask the world;
The world has read his story—
If all its annals can unfold
A prouder tale of glory:—
If ever merely human life
Hath taught diviner moral,—
If ever round a worthier brow
Was twined a purer laurel!
A twelvemonth only, since his sword
Went flashing through the battle—
A twelvemonth only, since his ear
Heard war's last deadly rattle—
And yet, have countless pilgrim-feet
The pilgrim's guerdon paid him,
And weeping women come to see
The place where they have laid him.