(Fell at the head of his Division February 6, 1865--aged 33) by W. Gordon M'Cabe
What shall we say now of our knight, Or how express the measure of our woe For him who rode the foremost in the fight, Whose good blade flashed so far amid the foe?
Of all his knightly deeds what need to tell? That good blade now lies fast within its sheath. What can we do but point to where he fell, And like a soldier, met a soldier's death?
We sorrow not as those who have no hope, For he was pure in heart as brave in deed. God pardon us if blind with tears we grope, And love be questioned by the hearts that bleed.
And yet....oh, foolish and of little faith..... We cannot choose but weep our useless tears. We loved him so, we never dreamed that death Would dare to touch him in his brave young years.
Ah, dear browned face, so fearless and so bright, As kind to friend as thou was stern to foe, No more we'll see thee radiant in the fight.... The eager eyes...the flush on cheek and brow;
No more will greet the lithe, familiar form Amid the surging smoke, with deaf'ning cheer; No more shall soar above the iron storm Thy ringing voice in accents sweet and clear.
Aye, he has fought the fight and passed away, Our grand young leader smitten in the strife; So swift to seize the chances of the fray, And careless only of his noble life.
He is not dead, but sleeps. Well we know The form that lies to-day beneath the sod Shall rise that time the golden bugles blow, And pour their music through the courts of God.
And there amid our great heroic dead, The war-worn sons of God whose work is done, His face shall shine as they, with stately tread, In grand review sweep past the jasper throne.
Let not our hearts be troubled. Few and brief His days were here, yet rich in love and faith. Lord, we believe; help thou our unbelief, And grant thy servants such a life and death.
