I give my soldier boy a blade,
In fair Damascus fashioned well;
Who first the glittering falchion swayed,
Who first beneath its fury fell,
I know not: but I hope to know
That for no mean or hireling trade,
To guard no feeling, base or low,
I give my soldier boy a blade.
Cool, calm, and clear, the lucid flood,
In which its tempering work was done;
As calm, as clear, as clear of mood
Be thou whene'er it sees the sun;
For country's claim, at honor's call,
For outraged friend, insulted maid,
At mercy's voice to bid it fall,
I give my soldier boy a blade.
The eye which marked its peerless edge,
The hand that weighed its balanced poise,
Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge,
Are gone with all their flame and noise;
And still the gleaming sword remains.
So when in dust I low am laid,
Remember by these heartfelt strains,
I give my soldier boy a blade.
LYNCHBURG, VA., _May 18, 1861_.