Ashes of Glory

A.J. Requier

Fold up the gorgeous silken sun,

By bleeding martyrs blest,

And heap the laurels it has won,

Above its place of rest.

 

No trumpet’s note harshly blast—

No drum funeral roll—

No trailing sabres drape the bier

That frees a dauntless soul!

 

It lived with Lee, and decked his brow

From Fate’s empyreal Palm;

It sleeps the sleep of Jackson now—

As spotless and as calm.

 

It was outnumbered—no outdone;

And they shall shuddering tell

Who struck the blow, its latest gun

Flashed ruin as it fell.

 

Sleep, shrouded Ensign! Not the breeze

That smote the victor tar

With death across the heaving seas

Of fiery Trafalgar;

 

Not Arthur’s knights, amid the gloom

Their knightly deed have starred;

Not Fallic Henry’s matchless plume,

Nor peerless-born Bryard;

 

Not all the antique fables fame,

And orient dreams disgorge;

Not yet the silver cross of Spain,

And lion of St. George.

 

Can bid thee pale! Proud emblem, still

They crimson glory shines

Beyond the lengthened shades that fill

Their proudest kingly lines.

 

Sleep in thine own historic night!

And be they blazoned scroll,

A warrior’s Banner takes its flight,

To greet the warrior’s soul!