"If these were my soldiers," he said,
As he glanced o'er the gory field
Where mingled the dying and dead
Of foemen who knew not to yield.
"If these were my soldiers, with standard unfurled,
I should gather the reins of a vanquished world.
"Seven times did we charge on the foe;
As oft did we order retreat;
Seven times, till the ebb and the flow
Brought the battle-tide under our feet.
Yet, unto destruction their courage held fast,
Till destiny weighted the balance at last.
"A victor! yet mourning the lost!
The flower of my army, my pride,
Who led in the conquering host
Lie mute as the serfs by their side.
Oh! mothers of Epirus, what shall atone!
Must the victor ride back with his laurels--alone!
"Unmatched as to numbers we met;
Well mated in ardor we fought;
Ah! never was victory yet
With bloodier sacrifice bought.
Peace be to our dead 'neath Lucanian sods!
Let Valour high-niche them in shrine of the gods!
"But _these_! of Rome's valiant who fell;
Who flinched not, but met every blow
With prowess no language may tell;
With face ever set to the foe.
If these were _my_ soldiers, with standard unfurled,
I should reign, the one king of a whole conquered world."
So is it in life's bitter warfare;
When hosts of wrong-doing assail,
The bravest in spirit, the truest of soul
In heat of the battle oft fail.
They lack in a leader, they parry each blow,
Yet fall in the conflict with face to the foe.
Legions of evil confronting
Firm-footed, position maintain;
Look thou to thine able Commander!
The foeman shall muster in vain.
In phalanx well marshaled, with standard unfurled,
Thou shalt combat and conquer a whole sinning world.
[Illustration]