But ere the siege is held a week a cry is heard without, A clash of arms, a rifle peal, the Ranger’s ringing shout, And two-and-thirty beardless boys have bravely hewed their way To die with Travis if they must, to conquer if they may. Was ever valor held so cheap in Glory’s mart before In all the days of chivalry, in all the deeds of war? But once again the foemen gaze in wonderment and fear To see a stranger break their lines and hear the Texans cheer. God! how they cheered to welcome him, those spent and starving men! For Davy Crockett by their side was worth an army then. The wounded ones forgot their wounds; the dying drew a breath To hail the king of border men, then turned to laugh at death. For all knew Davy Crockett, blithe and generous as bold, And strong and rugged as the quartz that hides its heart of gold. His simple creed for word or deed true as the bullet sped, And rung the target straight: “Be sure you’re right, then go ahead!” And were they right who fought the fight for Texas by his side? They questioned not; they faltered not; they only fought and died. Who hath an enemy like these, God’s mercy slay him straight!-- A thousand Mexicans lay dead outside the convent gate, And half a thousand more must die before the fortress falls, And still the tide of war beats high around the leaguered walls. At last the bloody breach is won; the weakened lines give way; The wolves are swarming in the court; the lions stand at bay. The leader meets them at the breach, and wins the soldier’s prize; A foeman’s bosom sheathes his sword when gallant Travis dies. Now let the victor feast at will until his crest be red-- We may not know what raptures fill the vulture with the dead. Let Santa Anna’s valiant sword right bravely hew and hack The senseless corse; its hands are cold; they will not strike him back. Let Bowie die, but ’ware the hand that wields his deadly knife; Four went to slay, and one comes back, so dear he sells his life. And last of all let Crockett fall, too proud to sue for grace, So grand in death the butcher dared not look upon his face. But far on San Jacinto’s field the Texan toils are set, And Alamo’s dread memory the Texan steel shall whet. And Fame shall tell their deeds who fell till all the years be run. “Thermopylæ left one alive--the Alamo left none.” JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. (By special permission of the author, and of Houghton, Mifflin and Company.) 14 THE FIGHT AT THE SAN JACINTO “Now for a brisk and a cheerful fight!” Said Harman, big and droll, As he coaxed his flint and steel for a light, And puffed at his cold clay bowl; “For we are a skulking lot,” says he, “Of land-thieves hereabout, And the bold señores, two to one, Have come to smoke us out.”