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His, too!—the man's we all adore—
That cavalier of cavaliers,
Whose voice will ring no more—
Whose plume will float amid the storm
Of battle nevermore!
Not on this idle page I write
That name of names, shrined in the core
Of every heart! Peace! foolish pen!
Hush! words so cold and poor!
His sword is rust; the blue eyes dust,
His bugle sounds no more!
Yet even here write this: He charged!
As Rupert in the years before,
And when his stern, hard work was done,
His griefs, joys, battles o'er—
His mighty spirit rode the storm,
And led his men once more!
He lies beneath his native sod,
Where violets spring, or frost is hoar,
He recks not—charging squadrons watch
His raven plume no more!
That smile we'll see, that voice we'll hear,
That hand we'll touch no more!
My foolish mirth is quenched in tears;
Poor fragments strewed upon the floor,
You are a type of nobler things
That find their use no more—
Things glorious once, now trodden down—
That make us smile no more!
Of courage, pride, high hopes, stout hearts—
Hard, stubborn nerve, devotion pure.
Beating his wings against the bars,
The prisoned eagle tried to soar!
Outmatched, overwhelmed, we struggled still—
Bread failed—we fought no more!
Lies in the dust the shattered staff
That bore aloft on sea and shore
That blazing flag, amid the storm!
And none are now so poor!
So poor to do it reverence
Now when it flames no more
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