Robert Gould Shaw
Brave, good, and true, I see him stand before me now, And read again on that young brow, Where every hope was new, HOW SWEET WERE LIFE! Yet, by the mouth firm-set, And look made up for Duty's utmost debt, I could divine he knew That death within the sulphurous hostile lines, In the mere wreck of nobly-pitched designs, Plucks hearts-ease, and not rue.

Right in the van, On the red ramparts slippery swell, With heart that beat a charge, he fell, Foeward, as fits a man; But the high soul burns on to light men's feet Where death for noble ends makes dying sweet; His life her crescent's span Orbs full with share in their undarkening days Who ever climbed the battailous steeps of praise Since valor's praise began.

We bide our chance, Unhappy, and make terms with Fate A little more to let us wait; He leads for aye the advance, Hope's forlorn-hopes that plant the desperate good For nobler Earths and days of manlier mood; Our wall of circumstance Cleared at a bound, he flashes o'er the fight, A saintly shape of fame, to cheer the right And steel each wavering glance.