by Mrs. Caulton.
Originally published in Bradshaw's Manchester Journal (Bradshaw & Blacklock) vol.1 #21 (18 Sep 1841).
Peal forth the sad bell's tone;
Be hushed the song round the festive board,
Lowered the spear, and sheathed the sword;
A chief from his place is gone.
Sad is each noble brow;
No more shall he head their war career,
'Gainst gleaming blade, or serried spear;
Woe for his warriors now!
Measur'd and slow the tread
Of the soldier train, as it passed to-day;
Tho' dazzling it shone in its rich array,
Its march was with the dead.
They carried him on his bier,
Whose eye in the hour of battle flashed,
When the charging squadron onward dashed—
Whose shout was one of cheer.
Riderless there his steed,
For the hand is stiff that guided the rein
To the thickest fight, on the battle plain—
To many a gallant deed.
And thus doth the strong man lie!
Whose plume was foremost where none would yield,
Whose arm had won on the hard fought field,
Whose watchword, Victory!
A wailing for the brave!
Comrades, ye list for his voice in vain,
Earth home to earth hath call'd back again;
He passes to his grave.
The bugle's wail is done:
The white robed priest hath prayed by the tomb,
The volley hath flashed forth its pealing boom;
The chief is left alone.