I give my soldier boy a blade, In fair Damascus fashioned well; Who first the glittering falchion swayed, Who first beneath its fury fell, I know not: but I hope to know That for no mean or hireling trade, To guard no feeling, base or low, I give my soldier boy a blade. Cool, calm, and clear, the lucid flood, In which its tempering work was done; As calm, as clear, as clear of mood Be thou whene’er it sees the sun; For country’s claim, at honor’s call, For outraged friend, insulted maid, At mercy’s voice to bid it fall, I give my soldier boy a blade. The eye which marked its peerless edge, The hand that weighed its balanced poise, Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge, Are gone with all their flame and noise; And still the gleaming sword remains. So when in dust I low am laid, Remember by these heartfelt strains, I give my soldier boy a blade. Lynchburg, Va., May 18, 1861. |