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For Liberty claimed his parting- breath,
And Fame his last trumpet cry : Yes, Freedom hath torn his young* name from Death—
The brave can never die !
His young breast met, like an ocean rock,
The clash of the battle-storm ; His proud soul smiled at the tempest shock,
That thundered around his form.
But his life grew faint when the storm raged high,
And ebbed with the dawning sun, And there on the field of victory
He fell beside his gun!
From the gallant throng there is missed a crest,
A sword from the ranks of steel, A hand from the gun whose mad unrest,
Hath made our foemen reel.
A blithe young voice from the mellow strain,
That floated at evenfall; A voice from the camp-song's high refrain,
A step in his father's hall:
In his father's hall—where his mother's eye,
Late hung with a gleam of joy, On the proud young form, as the hopes beat high
In the breast of her soldier boy.