Classic Poem

I GIVE my soldier-boy a blade,
In fair Damascus fashioned well;
Who first the glittering falchion swayed,
Who first beneath its fury fell,
I know not; but I hope to know
That for no mean or hireling trade,
To guard no feeling base or low,
I give my soldier-boy a blade.

Cool, calm, and clear, the lucid flood
In which its tempering work was done;
As calm, as clear, as cool of mood,
Be thou whene'er it sees the sun:
For country's claim, at Honor's call,
For outraged friend, insulted maid,
At Mercy's voice to bid it fall,
I give my soldier-boy a blade.

The eye which marked its peerless edge,
The hand that weighed its balanced poise,
Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge,
Are gone, with all their flame and noise;
And still the gleaming sword remains:
So, when in dust I low am laid,
Remember, by these heart-felt strains,
I gave my soldier-boy a blade.