M. W. Ransom
(Died October 8, 1904)
For him, who in a hundred battles stoodScorning the cannon’s mouth,Grimy with flame and red with foeman’s blood,For thy sweet sake, O South;
Who, wise as brave, yielded his conquered swordAt a vain war’s surcease,And spoke, thy champion still, the statesman’s wordIn the calm halls of peace;
Who pressed the ruddy wine to thy faint lips,Where thy torn body lay,And saw afar time’s white in-sailing shipsBringing a happier day:
Oh, mourn for him, dear land that gave him birth!Bow low thy sorrowing head!Let thy seared leaves fall silent on the earthWhereunder he lies dead!
In field and hall, in valor and in grace,In wisdom’s livery,Gentle and brave, he moved with knightly pace,A worthy son of thee!