Chapter XXXIII

Too late to rescue, but in time to weep, His tardy comrades came. As if asleep He lay, so fair, that even hellish hate Withheld its hand and dared not mutilate. By fiends who knew not honor, honored still, He smiled and slept on that far western hill. Cast down thy lyre, oh Muse! thy song is done! Let tears complete the tale of him who failed, yet won.

End of Project Gutenberg's Custer, and Other Poems., by Ella Wheeler Wilcox