And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir
Of his black mantle trailing in the dust.
While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom
Her country summoned, and she gave her all;
And twice War bowed to her his sable plume—
Re-gave the swords to rust upon her wall.
Re-gave the swords; but not the hand that drew,
And struck for Liberty its dying blow;
Nor him who, to his sire and country true.
Fell ’mid the ranks of the invading foe.