And one there was--his name immortal now-- Who dies not to the ring of rattling steel, Or battle-march of spirit-stirring drum, But, far from comrades and from friendly camp, Alone upon the scaffold. To drum-beat and heart-beat A soldier marches by; There is color in his cheek, There is courage in his eye, Yet to drum-beat and heart-beat In a moment he must die. By starlight and moonlight He seeks the Briton's camp, He hears the rustling flag, And the armèd sentry's tramp. And the starlight and moonlight His silent wanderings lamp. With slow tread and still tread He scans the tented line, And he counts the battery guns By the gaunt and shadowy pine, And his slow tread and still tread Give no warning sign. The dark wave, the plumed wave! It meets his eager glance; And it sparkles 'neath the stars Like the glimmer of a lance: A dark wave, a plumed wave, On an emerald expanse. A sharp clang, a steel clang! And terror in the sound; For the sentry, falcon-eyed, In the camp a spy hath found; With a sharp clang, a steel clang, The patriot is bound. With calm brow, steady brow, He listens to his doom; In his look there is no fear Nor a shadow trace of gloom; But with calm brow and steady brow He robes him for the tomb. In the long night, the still night, He kneels upon the sod; And the brutal guards withhold E'en the solemn Word of God! In the long night, the still night, He walks where Christ hath trod. 'Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn, He dies upon the tree; And he mourns that he can lose But one life for Liberty; And in the blue morn, the sunny morn, His spirit-wings are free. His last words, his message words, They burn, lest friendly eye Should read how proud and calm A patriot could die, With his last words, his dying words, A soldier's battle-cry! From Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf, From monument and urn, The sad of Earth, the glad of Heaven, His tragic fate shall learn; And on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf, The name of HALE shall burn! THE BLUE AND THE GRAY By the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron had fled, Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, Asleep are the ranks of the dead: Under the sod and the dew; Waiting the judgment-day; Under the one the Blue; Under the other, the Gray.