From far Dakota's ca�ons,
Lands of the wild ravine,
the dusky Sioux, the lonesome stretch, the silence,
Haply
to-day a mournful wail, haply a trumpet-note for heroes.
The battle-bulletin,
The Indian ambuscade, the craft,
the fatal environment,
The cavalry companies fighting to
the last in sternest heroism,
In the midst of their
little circle, with their slaughter'd horses for
breastworks,
The fall of Custer and all his officers and
men.
Continues yet the old, old legend of our race,
The loftiest of life upheld by death,
The ancient banner
perfectly maintain'd,
O lesson opportune, O how I welcome
thee!
As sitting in dark days,
Lone, sulky,
through the time's thick murk looking in vain for light, for
hope,
From unsuspected parts a fierce and momentary proof
(The sun there at the centre though conceal'd,
Electric
life forever at the centre),
Breaks forth a lightning
flash.
Thou of the tawny flowing hair in battle,
I
erewhile saw, with erect head, pressing ever in front,
bearing a
bright sword in thy hand,
Now ending well in
death the splendid fever of thy deeds
(I bring no dirge
for it or thee, I bring a glad triumphal sonnet),
Desperate and glorious, aye in defeat most desperate, most
glorious,
After thy many battles in which never yielding
up a gun or a colour,
Leaving behind thee a memory sweet
to soldiers,
Thou yieldest up thyself. |
