The war steed is champing his bit with disdain, And wild is the flash of his eye As he waves to the wind his dark, flowing mane, Starts, neighs, while the shouts and the bugler's refrain Proclaim that the battle is nigh. Charge! charge! And the Ranger flies fast on his steed, Bold Terry! the fearless and brave; His troops on his trail are moving with speed, And each has crowned his name with a deed That story or song will engrave! He swept to the field with an eye of delight, At the head of his brave, chosen band, As a meteor's course, 'mid the storms of the night, So splendidly shone his form in the fight, And sunk down with a glory as grand. He fought for the land of his kindred and birth, Not for fame--though its laurels are won; His thoughts had a higher, a holier worth Than the trumpet's acclaim, which tells to the earth "Of the man!"--not the deeds he has done. The lightning that burst on the warrior's head, From the foe that outnumbered his band, Deterred not his course, as thro' columns he sped,-- And left on his pathway the dying and dead, That had yielded their breath to his band. The thunders of battle are hush'd on the plain, And the wild cry of carnage is o'er, Dark vultures are gazing from high at the slain, And the earth drank the blood from the dark purple vein That thrilled to life's passions before. But tear-drops of grief dim the eyes of the brave, For their lion in death is laid low, Their banners in sable above him they wave, And muffle their drums in his march to the grave, To the music and language of woe. The Magnolia City laments for the dead, Through whose streets his gay banners he bore To a far distant land--but low lies his head, Yet columns shall rise on the fields where he bled, And freemen his memory adore. O calm in the tomb is the conqueror's rest! For his labors of life were well done, And though quenched is the light of his generous breast, With heroes immortal his spirit is blest, Who o'er death have the victory won. January 4, 1862


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