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DIRGE FOR ASHBY
by Margaret Junkin [1820-1897]

Heard ye that thrilling word—
Accent of dread—
Flash like a thunderbolt,
Bowing each head,—
Crash through the battle dun,
Over the booming gun,—
"
Ashby, our bravest one
,—
Ashby is dead!
"
Saw ye the veterans—
Hearts that had known
Never a quail of fear,
Never a groan,—
Sob 'mid the fight they win,—
Tears their stern eyes within,—
"Ashby, our Paladin,
Ashby is gone!"
Dash—dash the tear away,—
Crush down the pain!
"
Dulce et decus
" be
Fittest refrain!
Why should the dreary pall
Round him be flung at all?
Did not our hero fall
Gallantly slain?
Catch the last word of cheer
Dropt from his tongue;
Over the volley's din,
Loud be it rung,—
"
Follow me! follow me!
"—
Soldier, oh! could there be
Pæan or dirge for thee
Loftier sung!
Bold as the Lion-heart,
Dauntless and brave;
Knightly as knightliest
Bayard could crave;
Sweet with all Sidney's grace,
Tender as Hampden's face;—
Who—who shall fill the space
Void by his grave?
'Tis not
one
broken heart,
Wild with dismay;
Crazed with her agony,
Weeps o'er his clay:
Ah! from a thousand eyes
Flow the pure tears that rise;
Widowed Virginia lies
Stricken to-day!
Yet though that thrilling word—
Accent of dread—
Falls like a thunderbolt,
Bowing each head,—
Heroes! be battle done
Bravelier every one,
Nerved by the thought alone—
Ashby is dead!
Margaret Junkin Preston.

Source: Project Gutenberg

Source: Project Gutenberg