Heard ye that thrilling word--
Accent of dread--
Flash like a thunderbolt,
Bowing each head--
Crash through the battle dun,
Over the booming gun--
"_Ashby, our bravest one_,--
_Ashby is dead!_"
Saw ye the veterans--
Hearts that had known
Never a quail of fear,
Never a groan--
Sob 'mid the fight they win,
--Tears their stern eyes within,--
"Ashby, our Paladin,
Ashby is gone!"
Dash,--dash the tear away--
Crush down the pain!
"_Dulce et decus_," be
Fittest refrain!
Why should the dreary pall
Round him be flung at all?
Did not our hero fall
Gallantly slain?
Catch the last word of cheer
Dropt from his tongue;
Over the volley's din,
Loud be it rung--
"_Follow me! follow me!_"--
Soldier, oh! could there be
Pæan or dirge for thee,
Loftier sung!
Bold as the Lion-heart,
Dauntless and brave;
Knightly as knightliest
Bayard could crave;
Sweet with all Sidney's grace--
Tender as Hampden's face--
Who--who shall fill the space
Void by his grave?
'Tis not _one_ broken heart,
Wild with dismay;
Crazed with her agony,
Weeps o'er his clay:
Ah! from a thousand eyes
Flow the pure tears that rise;
Widowed Virginia lies
Stricken to-day!
Yet--though that thrilling word--
Accent of dread--
Falls like a thunderbolt,
Bowing each head--
Heroes! be battle done
Bravelier every one,
Nerved by the thought alone--
_Ashby is dead!_