Classic Poem

They fail from council and from camp, they are falling one by one,
Those grand old heroes of the stamp of God-loved Washington;
The task is wrought of mighty minds, their glorious day is done,
And Freedom mourns a faded star with every setting sun.

The kingly brow, the kindly hand, the proud and stalwart form
That stood the beacon of the might, the bulwark of the storm —
How few and far on Glory's slope their lessening numbers stand,
— The pillars of a people's hope, — the Titans of the land.

The mould is broken; here no more those regal souls we meet
We kept their honor, tho' the world had rocked beneath their feet;
The calm, clear dignity that shone no clearer for renown,
The matchless majesty that won, but would not wear a crown.

Ah! when descends the sullen night of freedom's darkest hour,
When demagogue and parasite defile the seats of power,
When dust is on the eagle's crest, and stain on stripe and star,
Ah! who shall fill their robes in peace, or lift their swords in war?

One more to that immortal band, that long illustrious line,
That counts no nobler name, old friend, or purer soul than thine;
Yea, with the mighty in their death, their rest, and their reward,
Sleep, in thy cloudless fame and faith, true soldier of the Lord.

Sleep with the mighty in thy death! yet not with these alone;
Sleep with the loving hearts that beat so truly to thine own;
Sleep with the sword-cross on thy breast, the well-worn scabbard by,
Fit symbols of a soldier's rest and his reward on high.