M. W. Ransom

For him, who in a hundred battles stood

Scorning the cannon's mouth,

Grimy with flame and red with foeman's blood,

For thy sweet sake, O South;

Who, wise as brave, yielded his conquered sword

At a vain war's surcease,

And spoke, thy champion still, the statesman's word

In the calm halls of peace;

Who pressed the ruddy wine to thy faint lips,

Where thy torn body lay,

And saw afar time's white in-sailing ships

Bringing a happier day:

Oh, mourn for him, dear land that gave him birth!

Bow low thy sorrowing head!

Let thy seared leaves fall silent on the earth

Whereunder he lies dead!

In field and hall, in valor and in grace,

In wisdom's livery,

Gentle and brave, he moved with knightly pace,

A worthy son of thee!