Ripley

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.