Fables in Song :: :: University of Virginia Library

In that hollow battery's earthen mound,
Gaily gather'd the guns around,
The officers, free at the fall of the day,
Were discussing with whom the achievement lay
Of so great a success. And said one of them, “Friends,
“Was there ever a captain so skill'd in war
As our gallant Prince? Bright Victory wends
With him, wherever his flag flies, far
From city to city; and lucky are we
Whose fortunes follow the guiding star
Of a hero, whose genius, all agree,
Is as great as his glorious actions are.”
Another, in answer, his shoulders shrugg'd,
And “Ay,” as his shaggy beard he tugg'd,
“So is every conqueror styled,” quoth he,
“Though owed to others his conquests be.
But the few to whom war's art is known
Know 'tis the General Staff alone

That organises and orders all;
To each arm of the service assigns that place
Where best the effect of its force may fall,
And the plan of the whole campaign doth trace.”
“'May be,” said a third, “that by these and those,
In a general way, is good service done.
No fruit can ripen, of course one knows,
Without the assistance of soil and sun.
But the question is—when your fruit is ripe,
How to pluck it.” (And here, his pipe
He lit, as he added) “That, you see,
“Can only be done by the Cavalry.”
“You forget,” said a fourth, an Engineer,
“The man who posted this battery here.
The foe had out-number'd us, ten to one,
And would, but for him, have o'erwhelm'd us too.”
“Posted the battery? Easily done!”
A sergeant mutter'd. “Forget not, you,
“Which of us was it, that pointed the gun.”

2.

'Neath the battery wall where these conversed,
A wounded gunner unheeded lay;
By a random shell, that had near him burst,
His feet were shatter'd and shorn away.
His lips were baked by a burning thirst,
On his limbs did the icy ague prey:

The yet smouldering brand in his frozen hand
He grasp'd; and follow'd, with eyes aflame,
The far-off blaze, that greeted his gaze
With the deadly effect of his life's last aim.
Not a word had he heard
Of the talk around him.
He died. And, with pride
In death dealt, death crown'd him.
Pain's parcht furrows placidly glided
Out of his weather-beaten face;
But a silent smile of triumph slided,
Under death's hovering hand, in their place;
And death, for a sign, congeal'd it there,
Stern, and fair.

3.

Now, of all the glory that gilt that day
Not a gleam yet glows in these after ages.
All that glitter'd hath faded away;
All, save the name of the Prince; in her pages
By History written, though seldom read.
All else is dead.