Sweet Malvern Hill is wreathed in flame,
From serried ranks the steel is gleaming;
Our legions march to death and fame,
Their battle flags right wildly streaming.
Each hero bares his manly breast,
And gallant hearts are fiercely beating;
With steady tramp they line the crest
O’er which an iron hail is sleeting.
Up loom the bastions grim and large
Through battle smoke that’s lowering near them;
The little drummers roll the charge,
And dying comrades raise to cheer them.
Twice forty guns with deadly aim
Strike down our lines in tones of thunder;
Yet still they press, with eyes aflame,
Till Valor’s self looks on in wonder.
But now the human tide rolls back,
A ghastly remnant grim and gory;
And countless heroes mark the track
Which led them up to heights of glory.
But one still presses on amain
Where double-shotted guns are frowning,
Above, amidst the iron rain,
He nobly wins a hero’s crowning.
Through all the battle smoke he’d seen
The saintly forms of angels bearing
The laurel crowns forever green
To wreathe the foreheads of the daring.
And eager for his priceless crown,--
The bastions scarce a length before him,--
His stalwart form at length went down
With Death and Honor bending o’er him.
Brave soldier of the Southern clime,
No stately song nor brilliant story
Shall hand thy name to future time
As one who gained immortal glory.
But Freedom, with her mailèd hand,
Has paused to brush a tear of sorrow,
And placed thee with that chosen band
Who freely pour their lifeblood for her.
And Valor, with her royal brow,
And Honor, with her stately bearing,
Have surely felt a prouder glow
When musing on thy peerless daring.
O gallant soldier, all unknown,
Though noisy Fame, we know, shall never
Proclaim thy deeds through every zone,
A hero’s crown is thine forever!