Classic Poem

The sun's last ray has glittered
On helmet, spear, and shield;
And the pale-faced moon from the heav'ns
Looks down upon the field.

The victors are rejoicing
By their watchfires far away;
The conquered flee in terror,
And dread the coming day;

But the noblest minded warriors,
The brave who scorned to yield,
With their pale, cold faces turned to the moon,
Recline on the hard fought field.

The rising sun had seen them
Preparing for the strife,
Each bosom throbbed with gladness,
Full of health, and full of life.

They faced the foe like heroes,
They fought, but fought in vain;
The bravest and the noblest
Are numbered with the slain.