258, SOUTHERN LIFE IN SOUTHERN LITERATURE
JOHN PEGRAM
What shall we say now of our gentle knight? Or how express the measure of our woe For him who rode the foremost in the fight, Whose good blade flashed so far amid the foe? Of all his knightly deeds what need to tell That good blade now lies fast within its sheath What can we do but point to where he fell, And, like a soldier, met a soldier s death. We sorrow not as those who have no hope, For he was pure in heart as brave in deed God pardon us, if blind with tears we grope, And love be questioned by the hearts that bleed. And yet O foolish and of little faith! We cannot choose but weep our useless tears We loved him so! we never dreamed that Death Would dare to touch him in his brave young years. Ah! dear bronzed face, so fearless and so bright! As kind to friend as thou wast stern to foe No more we'll see thee radiant in the fight, The eager eyes the flush on cheek and brow. No more we'll greet the lithe, familiar form Amid the surging smoke with deaf ning cheer No more shall soar above the iron storm Thy ringing voice in accents sweet and clear.
