Take down the helmet from its dusty board,
Lay down his sword
Upon the flag that drapes his narrow bed;
Pace, horses, with your load,
Down the white road,
Beneath the glare by Eastern sunlight shed.
And you, ye passing men of other race,
Make way, give place
Before a freight more sacred than the gun;
Dark eyes of each degree
Look up and see
That well-known pageant passing in the sun.
With clank of chain and wheels the carriage goes,
But his repose
Nor sound of arms nor tramp of horse can dim;
Forward; the dead-march rolls,
Keep we our souls
Strong for the last that love can do for him.
Flowers, lie soft upon his weary breast,
He is at rest,
The fight he could but lose is over now;
Lie light, ye heartsease bands,
Like parting hands
Laying a last caress upon his brow.
Asters, twine purple like a velvet pall,
Cry out to all,
Ye heavy grave-flowers, of a new-made grief;
A body striving sore
That strives no more;
His night was long but daylight brought relief.
O trumpet voice of flaming marigold!
Tell out with bold
And certain tongue how great a heart lies here,
Until the Trumpet’s tone
Shall drown your own
And that dear head upon its time-worn bier
Shall wake and hear.
❦