Gentlest and bravest in the battle's brunt,
The Champion of the Truth
He won banner in the very front
Of our immortal youth.
A clang of sabres 'mid Virginian snow,
The fiery pang of shells—
And there's a wail of immemorial woe
In Alabama dells.
The pennon droops that led the sacred band
Along the crimson field;
The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless hand
Over the spotless shield.
We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous face,
While 'round the lips and eyes,
Couched in their marble slumber, flashed the grace
Of a divine surprise.
O Mother of a blessed soul on high!
Thy tears may soon be shed—
Think of thy boy with princes of the sky,
Among the Southern Dead.
How must he smile on this dull world beneath,
Favored with swift renown;
He with the martyr's amaranthine wreath
Twining the victor's crown!
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