His mighty spirit rode the storm,
And led his men once more!

He lies beneath his native sod,
Where violets spring, or frost is hoar:
He recks not--charging squadrons watch
His raven plume no more!
That smile we'll see, that voice we'll hear,
That hand we'll touch no more!

My foolish mirth is quenched in tears:
Poor fragments strewed upon the floor,
Ye are the types of nobler things
That find their use no more--
Things glorious once, now trodden down--
That makes us smile no more!

Of courage, pride, high hopes, stout hearts--
Hard, stubborn nerve, devotion pure,
Beating his wings against the bars,
The prisoned eagle tried to soar!
Outmatched, overwhelmed, we struggled still--
Bread failed--we fought no more!

Lies in the dust the shattered staff
That bore aloft on sea and shore,
That blazing flag, amid the storm!
And none are now so poor,
So poor to do it reverence,
Now when it flames no more!