To Our Dead of New Hope
THE GALLANT BOYS OF FENNER’S BATTERY.
They sleep the deep sleep ‘neath the sanctified sod;
Made hoary with patriot gore;
They are resting for aye in the bosom of God;
The bugle will wake them no more.
No more will they thunder their wrath on the foes,
Nor smile on their friends as of yore;
By Honor’s proud voice they were lulled to repose,
Their knell was the fierce battle roar.
One died—he had sighted his gun ere he fell—
That round was the corporal’s last;
His soul on the canister rushed with a yell,
And scattered the foe as it passed.
None braver in battle, in camp none more kind;
In the march and bivouac none so gay;
Let him rest! In the hearts of his friends he’s enshrined,
And God Freedom’s debt will repay.
Another was tending the trail—came the shot,
And buried itself in his head;
His brother stretched out the pale corpse—murmured not,
And stern took the place of the dead.
He also was struck, but unmoved he remained,
At his post like a statue he stood,
Till the third brother came to the ground, crimsoned stained
By the flow of his own kindred blood.
‘Twas then the young Spartan, on leaving his place,
To the last of the patriot three,
Said, “Brother,” then looking him full in the face,
“Give them one for revenge and for me.”
No more need we look in dead history’s page,
Our souls with devotion to fire;
For our eyes have beheld, in this country and age,
How heroes and freemen expire.
All honor and fame to the good and the brave—
The patriot dead of our band—
The martyrs who perished their country to save,
At Liberty’s welcome command.