Classic Poem

Let the bugle be mute, for he needs not its warning,
Nor the drum with its reveille strains;
For he rides to the tune of his steed stepping stilly
And the blood as it bounds in his veins,
In the silence of death,
With the swiftness of breath,
As the falcon that sweeps on his prey,
As the eagle that swings
On his thunder-bolt wings,
Is the rush of the rider in gray.

There's a kiss on his cheek, but it murmured not “Tarry”;
And a tear, but it faltered not “Stay”—
He'll remember the lips when the foe lies before him
And the eyes when the stars are away.
The forest lies black
That shelters his track,
And the swamp closes dark on his way.
But the blessing and cheer
Of that kiss and that tear
Shall ride with the rider in gray.

The winds may have heard, but they whispered it never;
And the stars, but they may not tell,
The deed he hath wrought with a hero's endeavor
For the land that he loved so well.
The tyrant may boast
His numberless host
And exult in his haughty array,
But the angel of wrath
Follows hard on his path.
And strikes with the rider in gray.

While we live in the hopes of a better day, brother,
A morrow of sunlight and bloom.
Let us honor the brave, whose valor unfailing
Burned on through the midnight of gloom.
By the coursers so swift,
By the sabers they lift
And the scabbards they threw away,
May the light of the dawn
Of our Liberty's morn
Fall bright on the rider in gray.