Ashes of Glory
A. J. Requier
Fold up the gorgeous silken sun,
By bleeding martyrs blest,
And heap the laurels it has won
Above its place of rest.
No trumpet’s note need harshly blare—
No drum funereal roll—
Nor trailing sables drape the bier
That frees a dauntless soul!
It lived with Lee, and decked his brow
From Fate’s empyreal Palm:
It sleeps the sleep of Jackson now—
As spotless and as calm.
It was outnumbered—not outdone;
And they shall shuddering tell,
Who struck the blow, its latest gun
Flashed ruin as it fell.
Sleep, shrouded Ensign! not the breeze
That smote the victor tar,
With death across the heaving seas
Of fiery Trafalgar;
Not Arthur’s knights, amid the gloom
Their knightly deeds have starred;
Nor Gallic Henry’s matchless plume,
Nor peerless-born Bayard;
Not all that antique fables feign,
And Orient dreams disgorge;
Nor yet, the Silver Cross of Spain,
And Lion of St. George,
Can bid thee pale! Proud emblem, still
Thy crimson glory shines
Beyond the lengthened shades that fill
Their proudest kingly lines.
Sleep! in thine own historic night,—
And be thy blazoned scroll,
A warrior’s Banner takes its flight,
To greet the warrior’s soul!