Classic Poem

A thousand strong we marched to battle;
The city roared around the host;
The tambours blared their vaunting rattle;
The bugles yelled their joyous boast.

No thought had we to die asunder,
Companions sworn, a brother throng;
We looked to sweep through battle's thunder
In mighty lines, a thousand strong.

But ah, the fever's poisoned arrow!
The jungle's breath! the summer's glow!
Our broad array grew swiftly narrow,
And scanty hundreds met the foe.

O fervid longings, thoughts and fancies
That tread the city of the soul,
How few of all your spirit-lances
Arrive where glory's trumpets roll!