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Rh Their shivered swords are red with rust;

Their plumèd heads are bowed;

Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,

Is now their martial shroud;

And plenteous funeral tears have washed

The red stains from each brow;

And the proud forms, by battle gashed,

Are free from anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade,

The bugle's stirring blast,

The charge, the dreadful cannonade,

The din and shout are passed.

Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal,

Shall thrill with fierce delight

Those breasts that nevermore shall feel

The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce northern hurricane

That sweeps his great plateau,

Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,

Came down the serried foe.

Who heard the thunder of the fray

Break o'er the field beneath,

Knew well the watchword of that day

Was "Victory or Death!"