Margaret J. Preston

Heard ye that thrilling word -
    Accent of dread -
Flash like a thunderbolt,
    Bowing each head -
Crash through the battle dun,
Over the booming gun -
"Ashby, our bravest one, -
    Ashby is dead!"

Saw ye the veterans -
    Hearts that had known
Never a quail of fear,
    Never a groan -
Sob 'mid the fight they win,
- Tears their stern eyes within, -
"Ashby, our Paladin,
    Ashby is gone!"

Dash, - dash the tear away -
    Crush down the pain!
"Dulce et decus," be
    Fittest refrain!
Why should the dreary pall
Round him be flung at all?
Did not our hero fall
    Gallantly slain?

Catch the last word of cheer
    Dropt from his tongue;
Over the volley's din,
    Lo...

Thank God for such a Hero! - Fearless hold
    His diamond character beneath the sun,
    And brighter scintillations, one by one,
Come flashing from it. Never knight of old
Wore on serener brow, so calm, yet bold,
    Diviner courage: never martyr knew
    Trust more sublime, - nor patriot, zeal more true, -
Nor saint, self-abnegation of a mould
    Touched with profounder beauty. All the rare,
Clear, starry points of light, that gave his soul
    Such lambent lustre, owned but one sole aim, -
    Not for himself, nor yet his country's fame,
These glories shone: he kept the clustered whole
    A jewel for the crown that Christ shall wear!

A simple, sodded mound of earth,
    Without a line above it;
With only daily votive flowers
    To prove that any love it:
The token flag that silently
    Each breeze's visit numbers,
Alone keeps martial ward above
    The hero's dreamless slumbers.

No name? - no record? Ask the world;
    The world has read his story -
If all its annals can unfold
    A prouder tale of glory: -
If ever merely human life
    Hath taught diviner moral, -
If ever round a worthier brow
    Was twined a purer laurel!

A twelvemonth only, since his sword
    Went flashing through the battle -
A twelvemonth only, since his ear
    Heard war's last deadly rattle -
And yet, have countless pilgrim-feet
    The pilgrim's guerdon paid him,
And w...

APRIL 9TH, 1865.


I.

Unconquered captive! - close thine eye,
    And draw the ashen sackcloth o'er,
    And in thy speechless woe deplore
The fate that would not let thee die!


II.

The arm that wore the shield, strip bare;
    The hand that held the martial rein,
    And hurled the spear on many a plain -
Stretch - till they clasp the shackles there!


III.

The foot that once could crush the crown,
    Must drag the fetters, till it bleed
    Beneath their weight: - thou dost not need
It now, to tread the tyrant down.


IV.

Thou thought'st him vanquish'd - boastful trust!
    - His lance, in twain - his sword, a wreck -
    But with his heel upon thy neck,
He holds thee