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And the dashing- sound of the distant sea, With the wail in its troubled breast,
To the hearts 'round that clouded hearth will be, But an echo of their unrest!
But pillow his head on his flashing- sword, Whose Fame on the field was won—
The strife raged high where his blood was poured— And—he fell beside his gun !
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Oh, circle the banner around his form, That he loved with a soldier's pride,
For it shone like a star thro' the battle storm, O'er the field where our hero died !
He went from the red field down to the grave,
He fell where his fame was won, And his own fair State hath a name for the brave,
And a song for her martyred son !
Yes, Liberty shrined his parting breath,
And Texas his fainting cry— Yes, Fame hath torn his young name from death,
The brave can never die !
Then pillow his head on his flashing sword, Who fell where the field was won;
The turf is red where his life was poured— He fell beside his gun !
Tyler, Texas, 1863. |
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