Drift, snows of winter, o'er the turf
That hides in death his cherished form!
And roar, ye pine-trees, like the surf
That breaks before this eastern storm!
O turbulent December blast!
O night tempestuous and grim!
Ye cannot chill or overcast
The tender thought that dwells on him!
Wilder the tumult he defied,
Darker the leaden storm he braved,
Where swept the battle's smoking tide,
And banners, torn and blackened, waved.
Not scathless he amid the fray:
"Shot through the lungs,"--the message went:
Now surely Love shall find a way
To hold him here at home content.
"Oh, thou hast done enough," Love cried,
"For duty, fame,--enough, indeed!"
He touched his sabre, and replied,--
"It is our country's hour of need."
Back to the field, from respite brief,
Back to the battle's fiery breath,
Hurried our young high-hearted chief
To lead the charge where waited Death.
Oh, fallen in manhood's fairest noon,--
We will remember, 'mid our sighs,
He never yields his life too soon,
For country and for right who dies.