Classic Poem

Our game was his but yesteryear;
We wished him back; we could not know
The self-same hour we missed him here
He led the line that broke the foe.

Blood-red behind our guarded posts
Sank as of old the dying day;
The battle ceased; the mingled hosts
Weary and cheery went their way:

“To-morrow well may bring,” we said,
“As fair a fight, as clear a sun.
Dear lad, before the word was sped,
For evermore thy goal was won.