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But they bore him now to the crash of wheels ; No sound of their sorrow the hero feels, Tho' many are come that are sad and fair, With flowers and stars for his bloody bier, And weeping1 they lay them down.
And the Crescent shone with a wreathing1 grace Around that Star on the covered face ; No sound but of sobs and a parting look, And the forest sighed and the aspen shook As the train went rumbling on.
And down to the feet of the moaning sea, Where the waves made the only melody, No band or bell was played or tolled— But the Hero cared not—hate fell cold On the heart of him who slept.
Where the church was closed by the mandate given, And he lay on the wharf under night and heaven, Fair friend and slave with uncovered head, Gazed alike on the face of the sleeping dead, And alike in silence wept.
So the vigil held, 'till the chastened cloud, For the shame of men, hid its face and bowed; And thousands came when the moon was high, And they bore their burden sadly by,
To its rest on the prairie plain.
As the prairie flowers that now grow o'er him, Where the white-maned steeds that walked before him Proud and stepped and slow—and the mourners said, Let a stately place for his couch be made— Houston must have its fane.