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Page 162
Dirge for Ashby.
By Mrs. M. J. Preston.
Heard ye that thrilling word--
Accent of dread--
Fall, like a thunderbolt,
Bowing each head?
Over the battle dun,
Over each 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, though the fight they win,
Tears their stern eyes within--
Ashby, our Paladin,
Ashby is dead!
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 words of cheer,
Dropt from his tongue;
Over the battle's din,
Let them be rung!
"Follow _me!_ follow _me!_"
Soldier, oh! could there be
P�an or dirge for thee,
Loftier sung?
Bold as the lion's heart--
Dauntlessly brave--
Knightly as knightliest
Bayard might crave;
Sweet, with all Sydney's grace.
Tender as Hampden's face,
Who now shall fill the space,
Void by his grave?
'Tis not one broken heart,
Wild with dismay--
Crazed in her agony,
Weeps o'er his clay!
Ah! from a thousand eyes,
Flow the pure tears that rise--
Widowed Virginia lies
Stricken to-day!
Yet, charge as gallantly,
Ye, whom he led!
Jackson, the victor, still
Leads, at your head!
Heroes! be battle done
Bravelier, every one
Nerved by the thought alone--
Ashby is dead!
Sacrifice.
I.
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