Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889
Lyon
By Henry Peterson (1818–1891)S
Thy saddest song of sorrow;
Drop tears, Oh clouds, in gentlest rain
Ye from the winds can borrow;
Breathe out, ye winds, your softest sigh,
Weep, flowers, in dewy splendor,
For him who knew well how to die,
But never to surrender.
Upon that day of glory;
Upcurled from musket and from gun
The war-cloud gray and hoary.
It gathered like a funeral pall,
Now broken and now blended,
Where rang the bugle’s angry call,
And rank with rank contended.
As e’er went forth in daring,
Upon the foe that morning threw
The strength of their despairing.
They feared not death—men bless the field
That patriot soldiers die on—
Fair Freedom’s cause was sword and shield,
And at their head was Lyon!
From eyes of troubled brightness;
Sad soul! the burden of the North
Had pressed out all its lightness.
He gazed upon the unequal fight,
His ranks all rent and gory,
And felt the shadows close like night
Round his career of glory.
From a brave band was ringing—
“Lead us, and we will stop, or die,
That battery’s awful singing.”
He spurred to where his heroes stood,
Twice wounded—no wound knowing—
The fire of battle in his blood
And on his forehead glowing.
And cursed that aim so deadly,
Which smote the bravest of the land,
And dyed his bosom redly;—
Serene he lay while past him prest
The battle’s furious billow,
As calmly as a babe may rest
Upon its mother’s pillow.
His place of burial cover,
For never had this land of ours
A more devoted lover.
Living, his country was his bride,
His life he gave her dying;
Life, fortune, love—he naught denied
To her and to her sighing.
Beside her form who bore thee!
Long may the land thou diedst to save
Her bannered stars wave o’er thee!
Upon her history’s brightest page,
And on Fame’s glowing portal,
She’ll write thy grand, heroic rage,
And grave thy name immortal!