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Page 143
Never more, alas I shall sabre
Gleam around his crest;
Fought his fight, fulfilled his labor,
Stilled his manly breast;
All unheard sweet nature's cadence,
Trump of fame and voice of maidens--
Now he takes his rest.
Earth, that all too soon hath bound him?
Gently wrap his clay;
Linger lovingly around him,
Light of dying day;
Softly fall the summer showers,
Birds and bees among the flowers
Make the gloom seem gay.
There, throughout the coming ages,
When his sword is rust,
And his deeds in classic pages;
Mindful of her trust,
Shall Virginia, bending lowly,
Still a ceaseless vigil holy
Keep above his dust.
Captain Latane.
By John R. Thompson, of Virginia.
The combat raged not long; but ours the day,
And through the hosts which compassed us around
Our little band rode proudly on its way,
Leaving one gallant spirit, glory crowned,
Unburied on the field he died to gain;
Single, of all his men, among the hostile slain!
One moment at the battle's edge he stood,
Hope's halo, like a helmet, round his hair--
The next, beheld him dabbled in his blood,
Prostrate in death; and yet in death how fair!
And thus he passed, through the red gates of strife,
From earthly crowns and palms, to an eternal life.
A brother bore his body from the field,
And gave it into strangers' hands, who closed
His calm blue eyes, on earth forever sealed,
And tenderly the slender limbs composed;
Strangers, but _sisters, who, with Mary's love,
Sat by the open tomb and, weeping, looked above._
A little girl strewed roses on his bier,
Pale roses--not more stainless than his soul,
Nor yet more fragrant than his life sincere,
That blossomed with good actions--brief, but whole.
The aged matron, with the faithful slave,
Approached with reverent steps the hero's lowly grave.
No man of God might read the burial rite
Above the rebel--thus declared the foe,
Who blanched before him in the deadly fight;
But woman's voice, in accents soft and low,
Trembling with pity, touched with pathos, read
Over his hallowed dust, the ritual for the dead!
"'Tis sown in weakness; it is raised in power."
Softly the promise floated on the air,
Arid the sweet breathings of the sunset hour,
Come back responsive to the mourner's prayer.
Gently they laid him underneath the sod,
And left him with his fame, his country, and his God.
We should not weep for him! His deeds endure;
So young, so beautiful, so brave--he died
As he would wish to die. The past secure,
Whatever yet of sorrow may betide
Those who still linger by the stormy shore;
Change cannot hurt him now, nor fortune reach him more.
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