“They are more than twenty thousand strong, We less than five, Too few with such a host to strive” “Such counsel, fie on! ’Tis battle, or ’tis shame;” and firm stood Lyon. “For help at need in van we wait-- Retreat or fight: Retreat the foe would take for flight, And each proud scion Feel more elate; the end must come,” said Lyon. By candlelight he wrote the will, And left his all To Her for whom ’twas not enough to fall; Loud neighed Orion Without the tent; drums beat; we marched with Lyon. The night-tramp done, we spied the Vale With guard-fires lit; Day broke, but trooping clouds made gloom of it: “A field to die on” Presaged in his unfaltering heart, brave Lyon. We fought on the grass, we bled in the corn-- Fate seemed malign; His horse the Leader led along the line-- Star-browed Orion; Bitterly fearless, he rallied us there, brave Lyon. There came a sound like the slitting of air By a swift sharp sword-- A rush of the sound; and the sleek chest broad Of black Orion Heaved, and was fixed; the dead mane waved toward Lyon. “General, you’re hurt--this sleet of balls!” He seemed half spent; With moody and bloody brow, he lowly bent: “The field to die on; But not--not yet; the day is long,” breathed Lyon. For a time becharmed there fell a lull In the heart of the fight; The tree-tops nod, the slain sleep light; Warm noon-winds sigh on, And thoughts which he never spake had Lyon. Texans and Indians trim for a charge: “Stand ready, men! Let them come close, right up, and then After the lead, the iron; Fire, and charge back!” So strength returned to Lyon. The Iowa men who held the van, Half drilled, were new To battle: “Some one lead us, then we’ll do” Said Corporal Tryon: “Men! _I_ will lead,” and a light glared in Lyon. On they came: they yelped, and fired; His spirit sped; We leveled right in, and the half-breeds fled, Nor stayed the iron, Nor captured the crimson corse of Lyon. This seer foresaw his soldier-doom, Yet willed the fight. He never turned; his only flight Was up to Zion, Where prophets now and armies greet brave Lyon. Ball’s Bluff. A Reverie. (October, 1861.) One noonday, at my window in the town, I saw a sight--saddest that eyes can see-- Young soldiers marching lustily Unto the wars, With fifes, and flags in mottoed pageantry; While all the porches, walks, and doors Were rich with ladies cheering royally. They moved like Juny morning on the wave, Their hearts were fresh as clover in its prime (It was the breezy summer time), Life throbbed so strong, How should they dream that Death in a rosy clime Would come to thin their shining throng? Youth feels immortal, like the gods sublime.