Nonfiction > E.C. Stedman & E.M. Hutchinson, eds. > A Library of American Literature > 1835–1860
Stedman and Hutchinson, comps.  A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes.  1891.
Vols. VI–VIII: Literature of the Republic, Part III., 1835–1860
By Henry Peterson (1818–1891)
[Born in Philadelphia, Penn., 1818. Died there, 1891. From Poems. 1863.]

SING, bird, on green Missouri’s plain,
  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,        5
  Weep, flowers, in dewy splendor,
For him who knew well how to die,
  But never to surrender.
Uprose serene the August sun
  Upon that day of glory;        10
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,        15
  And rank with rank contended.
Four thousand men, as brave and true
  As e’er went forth in daring,
Upon the foe that morning threw
  The strength of their despairing.        20
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!
The leader’s troubled soul looked forth        25
  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,        30
And felt the shadows close like night
  Round his career of glory.
“General, come lead us!” loud the cry
  From a brave band was ringing—
“Lead us, and we will stop, or die,        35
  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.        40
Oh, cursed for aye that traitor’s hand,
  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        45
  The battle’s furious billow,
As calmly as a babe may rest
  Upon its mother’s pillow.
So Lyon died! and well may flowers
  His place of burial cover,        50
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        55
  To her and to her sighing.
Rest, Patriot, in thy hill-side grave,
  Beside her form who bore thee!
Long may the land thou diedst to save
  Her bannered stars wave o’er thee!        60
Upon her history’s brightest page,
  And on Fame’s glowing portal,
She’ll write thy grand, heroic rage,
  And grave thy name immortal!

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