Page:The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1908.djvu/202

POEMS OF OCCASION CUSTER

What! shall that sudden blade

Leap out no more?

No more thy hand be laid

Upon the sword-hilt, smiting sore?

O for another such

The charger's rein to clutch,—

One equal voice to summon victory,

Sounding thy battle-cry,

Brave darling of the soldiers' choice!

Would there were one more voice!

O gallant charge, too bold!

O fierce, imperious greed

To pierce the clouds that in their darkness hold

Slaughter of man and steed!

Now, stark and cold,

Among thy fallen braves thou liest,

And even with thy blood defiest

The wolfish foe:

But ah, thou liest low,

And all our birthday song is hushed indeed!

Young lion of the plain,

Thou of the tawny mane!

Hotly the soldiers' heart shall beat,

Their mouths thy death repeat,

Their vengeance seek the trail again

Where thy red doomsmen be;

But on the charge no more shall stream

Thy hair,—no more thy sabre gleam,—

No more ring out thy battle-shout,

Thy cry of victory!

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