The Broken Mug. 225
Those lips this broken vessel touched,
His, too ! — the man's we all adore — That cavalier of cavaliers,
Whose voice will ring no more —
Whose plume will float amid the storm Of battle nevermore !
Not on this idle page I write
That name of names, shrined in the core Of every heart ! Peace ! foolish pen !
Hush ! words so cold and poor!
His sword is rust ; the blue eyes dust, His bugle sounds no more!
Yet even here write this: He charged!
As Rupert in the years before, And when his stern, hard work was done,
His griefs, joys, battles o'er —
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, You are a type of nobler things
That find their use no more —
Things glorious once, now trodden down — That make 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!
