ON THE DEATH OF AN INVINCIBLE SOLDIER
O what a sore campaign,
Of which men long shall tell,
Ended when he was slain—
When this our greatest fell!
For him no mould had cast
A bullet surely sped;
No falchion, welded fast,
His iron blood had shed.
Death on the hundredth field
Had failed to bring him low;
He was not born to yield
To might of mortal foe.
Even to himself unknown,
He bore the fated sword,
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