Classic Poem

The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold,
The turf with our bayonets turning,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold,
And our lanterns dimly burning.

And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
When the clock told the hour for retiring—
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown,
Though the foe were sullenly firing.

And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
As his corse to the ramparts we hurried,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord,
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed—
And we far away on the billow!

And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
As we bitterly thought on the morrow,
And their hearts but once heaved and forever grew still,
But we spake not a word of sorrow!

And there lay the steed, with his nostril all wide,
In the grave where a Briton hath laid him
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him.

And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail—
So we left him alone in his glory!