Chapter II

Were mine the gift to coin my heart of hearts
In living words, fit tribute should be paid
To all the heroes whose enacted parts
Gave fame immortal to Mahone's Brigade.

But he who bore the musket is the man
Whose figure should for future time be made--
Cleft from a rock by some new Thorwaldsen--
The Private Soldier of Mahone's Brigade.

His was that sense of duty only felt
By souls heroic. In the modest shade
He lived, or fell; but his, Fame's Starry Belt--
His, Fame's own Galaxy, Mahone's Brigade.

And in that Belt--all luminous with stars,
Unnamed and woven in a wondrous braid--
A blaze of glory in the sky of Mars--
Your orbs are thickly set, Mahone's Brigade.

The Private Soldier is the man who comes
From mart, or plain, or grange, or sylvan glade,
To answer calls of trumpets and of drums--
So came the Soldier of Mahone's Brigade.

His messmate, hunger; comrades, heat and cold;
His decorations, death or wounds, conveyed
To the brave patriot in ways manifold--
But yet he flinched not in Mahone's Brigade.

When needing bread, Fate gave him but a stone;
Ragged, he answered when the trumpet brayed;
Barefoot he marched, or died without a groan;
True to his battle-flag, Mahone's Brigade.

Could some Supreme Intelligence proclaim,
Arise from all the pomp of rank and grade,
War's truest heroes, oft we'd hear some name,
Unmentioned by the world, Mahone's Brigade.

And yet they have a name, enriched with thanks
And tears and homage--which shall never fade--
Their name is simply this: Men of the Ranks--
The Knights without their spurs--Mahone's Brigade.

And though unbelted and without their spurs,
To them is due Fame's splendid accolade;
And theirs the story which to-day still stirs
The pulses of your heart, Mahone's Brigade.

Men of the Ranks, step proudly to the front,
'Twas yours unknown through sheeted flame to wade,
In the red battle's fierce and deadly brunt;
Yours be full laurels in Mahone's Brigade.

III.

For those who fell be yours the sacred trust
To see forgetfulness, shall not invade
The spots made holy by their noble dust;
Green keep them in your hearts, Mahone's Brigade.

Oh, keep them green with patriotic tears!
Forget not, now war's fever is allayed,
Those valiant men, who, in the vanished years,
Kept step with you in ranks, Mahone's Brigade.

Each circling year, in the sweet month of May,
Your countrywomen--matron and fair maid--
Still pay their tribute to the Soldier's clay,
And strew his grave with flow'rs, Mahone's Brigade.

Join in the task, with retrospective eye;
Men's mem'ries should not perish 'neath the spade;
Pay homage to the dead, whose dying cry
Was for the Commonwealth, Mahone's Brigade.

Raise up, O State! a shaft to pierce the sky,
To him, the Private, who was but afraid
To fail in his full duty--not to die;
And on its base engrave, "Mahone's Brigade."

IV.

Now that the work of blood and tears is done,
Whether of stern assault, or sudden raid,
Yours is a record second yet to none--
None takes your right in line, Mahone's Brigade.

Now that we've lost, as was fore-doomed, the day--
Now that the good by ill has been outweighed--
Let us plant olives on the rugged way,
Once proudly trodden by Mahone's Brigade.

And when some far-stretchen future folds the past,
To us so recent, in its purple shade,
High up, as if on some "tall Admiral's mast,"
Shall fly your battle-flags, Mahone's Brigade.