79. Lander.
by Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
close his bleak eyes — they shall no moreFlash victory where the cannon roar;
And lay the battered sabre at his side,
(His to the last, for so he would have died!)
Though he no more may pluck from out its sheath
The sinewy lightning that dealt traitors death.
Lead the worn war-horse by the plumed bier--
Even his horse, now he is dead, is dear!
Take him, New-England, now his work is done.
He fought the Good Fight valiantly — and won.
Speak of his daring. This man held his blood
Cheaper than water for the nation's good.
Rich Mountain, Fairfax, Romney — he was there.
Speak of him gently, of his mien, his air;
How true he was, how his strong heart could bend
With sorrow, like a woman's, for a friend:
Intolerant of every base desire:
Ice where he liked not; where he loved, all fire.
Take him, New-England, gently. Other days,
Peaceful and prosperous, shall give him praise.
How will our children's children breathe his name,
Bright on the shadowy muster-roll of fame!
Take him, New-England, gently; you can fold
No purer patriot in your soft brown mould.
So, on New-England's bosom, let him lie,
Sleeping awhile — as if the Good could die!
