And where the master hand that swept the lyre
Till wrinkled critics cried "Excelsior"?
Gathering the "Aftermath" in frosted fields.
Then, timid Muse, no longer shake thy wings
For airy realms and fold again in fear;
A broken flight is better than no flight;
Be thine the task, as best you may, to sing
The deeds of one who sleeps at Gettysburg
Among the thousands in a common grave.
The story of his life I bid you tell
As it was told one windy winter night
To veterans gathered around the festal board,
Fighting old battles over where the field
Ran red with wine, and all the battle-blare
Was merry laughter and the merry songs--
Told when the songs were sung by him who heard
The pith of it from the dying soldier's lips--
His Captain--tell it as the Captain told.
THE CAPTAIN'S STORY
"Well, comrades, let us fight one battle more;
Let the cock crow--we'll guard the camp till morn.
And--since the singers and the merry ones
Are _hors de combat_--fill the cups again;
Nod if you must, but listen to a tale
Romantic--but the warp thereof is truth.
When the old Flag on Sumter's sea-girt walls
From its proud perch a fluttering ruin fell,
I swore an oath as big as Bunker Hill;
For I was younger then, nor battle-scarred,
And full of patriot-faith and patriot-fire.
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