Rich in red honors, that upon him lie As lightly as the Summer dews Fall where he won his fame beneath the sky Of tropic Vera Cruz;Bold scorner of the cant that has its birth In feeble or in failing powers;A lover of all frank and genial mirth That wreathes the sword with flowers;He moves amid the warriors of the day, Just such a soldier as the art That builds its trophies upon human clay Moulds 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 wake The 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 all Surveys a field with broader scope;And who behind that sea-encircled wall Fights with a loftier hope?
Gay Chieftain! on the crimson rolls of Fame Thy 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 cast Which 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 wield The weapon of a tyrant's doom, Round which, inscribed with many a well-fought field, The rose of joy shall bloom.
