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Hard pressed by numbers in his strait,

Rebellion's soldier-chief no more contends—

Feels that the hour is come of Fate,

Lays down one sword, and widened warfare ends.

The captain who fierce armies led

Becomes a quiet seminary's head—

Poor as his privates, earns his bread.

In studious cares and aims engrossed,

Strives to forget Stuart and Stonewall dead—

Comrades and cause, station and riches lost,

And all the ills that flock when fortune's fled.

No word he breathes of vain lament,

Mute to reproach, nor hears applause—

His doom accepts, perforce content,

And acquiesces in asserted laws;

Secluded now would pass his life,

And leave to time the sequel of the strife.