Ripley
Rich in red honors, that upon him lieAs lightly as the Summer dewsFall where he won his fame beneath the skyOf tropic Vera Cruz;
Bold scorner of the cant that has its birthIn feeble or in failing powers;A lover of all frank and genial mirthThat wreathes the sword with flowers;
He moves amid the warriors of the day,Just such a soldier as the artThat builds its trophies upon human clayMoulds of a cheerful heart.
I see him in the battle that shall shake,Ere long, old Sumter’s haughty crown,And from their dreams of peaceful traffic wakeThe wharves of yonder town;
As calm as one would greet a pleasant guest,And quaff a cup to love and life,He hurls his deadliest thunders with a jest,And laughs amid the strife.
Yet not the gravest soldier of them allSurveys a field with broader scope;And who behind that sea-encircled wallFights with a loftier hope?
Gay Chieftain! on the crimson rolls of FameThy deeds are written with the sword;But there are gentler thoughts which, with thy name,Thy country’s page shall hoard.
A nature of that rare and happy castWhich looks, unsteeled, on murder’s face;Through what dark scenes of bloodshed hast thou passed,Yet lost no social grace?
So, when the bard depicts thee, thou shalt wieldThe weapon of a tyrant’s doom,Round which, inscribed with many a well-fought field,The rose of joy shall bloom.