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.