Classic Poem

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,
Loud be it rung, —
" Follow me! follow me! " —
Soldier, oh! could there be
Paean or dirge for thee
Loftier sung!

Bold as the Lion-heart,
Dauntless and brave;
Knightly as knightliest
Bayard could crave;
Sweet with all Sidney's grace,
Tender as Hampden's face; —
Who — who shall fill the space
Void by his grave?

'T is not one broken heart,
Wild with dismay;
Crazed with 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 though that thrilling word —
Accent of dread —
Falls like a thunderbolt,
Bowing each head, —
Heroes! be battle done
Bravelier every one,
Nerved by the thought alone —
Ashby is dead!