Songs of the rebels: unlaurelled heroes.
Oh! praise not those supremely blest
With honor, talents, life, and beauty,
But let your high encomiums rest
On those who fall at posts of duty;
On those who bravely meet their fate,
With hearts of oak and souls of iron,
And leave those bright homes desolate,
Where hope to love sang like a syren.
'Tis not for those the trump of fame
Salutes with flattery's warm caresses,
Who bear through life a splendid name,
That all the world admires and blesses;
But oh! for those, our tears we shed,
Who fall uncrowned with rays of glory,
And come back like the Spartan dead,
On shields that tell their own sad story.
Look where brave Zollicoffer fell,
To music of the death-shot's rattle;
And where young Peyton's final knell
Swept o'er him in disastrous battle--
For such the heart in anguish bleeds,
And pours out all its warmest praises;
They went forth on their fiery steeds,
So soon to sleep beneath the daisies!
While life was young and manhood bright,
And honors clustered fast and faster,
They went forth, armed with truth and might,
To meet defeat and dark disaster;
Theirs was the martyr's dreary doom,
When, to their brows, a thorn-crown pressing,
They dimly saw, beyond the tomb,
The prize they sought — their country's blessing.
Then weep for the unlaurelled brave
Who fell undecked with victory's splendors,
And place upon each martyr's grave,
“Most loved, most blest of our defenders;”
For each shall be a holy shrine,
And pilgrim's tears, upon them falling,
Shall rise, like frankincense divine,
Their hero-martyr lives recalling.
With honor, talents, life, and beauty,
But let your high encomiums rest
On those who fall at posts of duty;
On those who bravely meet their fate,
With hearts of oak and souls of iron,
And leave those bright homes desolate,
Where hope to love sang like a syren.
'Tis not for those the trump of fame
Salutes with flattery's warm caresses,
Who bear through life a splendid name,
That all the world admires and blesses;
But oh! for those, our tears we shed,
Who fall uncrowned with rays of glory,
And come back like the Spartan dead,
On shields that tell their own sad story.
Look where brave Zollicoffer fell,
To music of the death-shot's rattle;
And where young Peyton's final knell
Swept o'er him in disastrous battle--
For such the heart in anguish bleeds,
And pours out all its warmest praises;
They went forth on their fiery steeds,
So soon to sleep beneath the daisies!
While life was young and manhood bright,
And honors clustered fast and faster,
They went forth, armed with truth and might,
To meet defeat and dark disaster;
Theirs was the martyr's dreary doom,
When, to their brows, a thorn-crown pressing,
They dimly saw, beyond the tomb,
The prize they sought — their country's blessing.
Then weep for the unlaurelled brave
Who fell undecked with victory's splendors,
And place upon each martyr's grave,
“Most loved, most blest of our defenders;”
For each shall be a holy shrine,
And pilgrim's tears, upon them falling,
Shall rise, like frankincense divine,
Their hero-martyr lives recalling.
