If all its annals can unfold
A prouder tale of glory:--
If ever merely human life
Hath taught diviner moral,--
If ever round a worthier brow
Was twined a purer laurel!

A twelvemonth only, since his sword
Went flashing through the battle--
A twelvemonth only, since his ear
Heard war's last deadly rattle--
And yet, have countless pilgrim-feet
The pilgrim's guerdon paid him,
And weeping women come to see
The place where they have laid him.

Contending armies bring, in turn,
Their meed of praise or honor,
And Pallas here has paused to bind
The cypress wreath upon her:
It seems a holy sepulchre,
Whose sanctities can waken
Alike the love of friend or foe,--
Of Christian or of pagan.

THEY come to own his high emprise,
Who fled in frantic masses,
Before the glittering bayonet
That triumphed at Manassas:
Who witnessed Kernstown's fearful odds,