Classic Poem

Mute are my chords when beauty claims the song,
'Or kingly grace, or limbs of giant mould;
No grace of mine extols the honey'd tongue,
The racer's swiftness, or the gleam of gold.

My theme's the youth who views with steady eyes
The bloodiest carnage, and the grin of death;
Mid thickest battle claims the victor's prize,
And man to man disputes the laurel wreath.

Blest by his country's praise, his parent's smile,
He views the waste of life, nor feels appal,
Firm at the post, and foremost in the file,
With dauntless breast he sees his comrade fall.

With sinewy arm he stems the wave of war,
O'er adverse hosts he scatters wild dismay;
Reckless of life he guides his griding car,
Where danger frowns, amid the bloody fray.

And falls the youth? — he falls, his country's joy, —
His father's pride, — who tells each honest wound,
Points to the fissur'd buckler of his boy,
And smiles in tears, while all his praise resound.

His childrens' children, bending o'er his tomb,
Shall date their glories from his honour'd name;
Thus, wrapt in earth, he scapes the vulgar doom,
And lives for ever in the rolls of fame.