When the west was red with sunset,
The last pursuit was o'er;
Brave Lyon rode the foremost,
And looked the name he bore.
And before him on his saddle,
As a weary child would do,
Sat the little drummer, fast asleep,
With his rat-tat-too.
Richard Henry Stoddard.
Hostilities culminated on August 10, 1861, in a pitched battle at Wilson's Creek, in which, through bad management, the Union forces were defeated and Lyon himself was killed.
THE DEATH OF LYON
[August 10, 1861]
Sing, bird, on green Missouri's plain,
The saddest song of sorrow;
Drop tears, O clouds, in gentlest rain
Ye from the winds can borrow;
Breathe out, ye winds, your softest sigh,
Weep, flowers, in dewy splendor,
For him who knew well how to die,
But never to surrender.
Up rose serene the August sun
Upon that day of glory;
Up curled from musket and from gun
The war-cloud, gray and hoary;
It gathered like a funeral pall,
Now broken, and now blended,
Where rang the bugle's angry call,
And rank with rank contended.
Four thousand men, as brave and true
As e'er went forth in daring,
Upon the foe that morning threw
The strength of their despairing.
They feared not death—men bless the field
That patriot soldiers die on;
Fair Freedom's cause was sword and shield,
And at their head was Lyon.
Their leader's troubled soul looked forth
From eyes of troubled brightness;
Sad soul! the burden of the North
Had pressed out all its lightness.
He gazed upon the unequal fight,
His ranks all rent and gory,
And felt the shadows close like night
Round his career of glory.
"General, come lead us!" loud the cry
From a brave band was ringing—
"Lead us, and we will stop, or die,
That battery's awful singing!"
He spurred to where his heroes stood—
Twice wounded, no one knowing—
The fire of battle in his blood
And on his forehead glowing.