And through his verse shall gleam
The swords that flashed in vain,
And the men who wore the gray shall seem
To be marshaling again.
But hush! between his words
Peer faces sad and pale,
And you hear the sound of broken chords
Beat through the poet's wail.
Through his verse the orphans cry --
The terrible undertone --
And the father's curse and the mother's sigh,
And the desolate young wife's moan.
* * * * *
But harps are in every land
That await a voice that sings,
And a master-hand -- but the humblest hand
May gently touch its strings.
I sing with a voice too low
To be heard beyond to-day,
In minor keys of my people's woe,
But my songs pass away.
To-morrow hears them not --
To-morrow belongs to Fame --
My songs, like the birds', will be forgot,
And forgotten shall be my name.
And yet who knows? Betimes
The grandest songs depart,
While the gentle, humble, and low-toned rhymes
Will echo from heart to heart.
But, oh! if in song or speech,
In major or minor key,
My voice could over the ages reach,
I would whisper the name of Lee.
In the night of our defeat
Star after star had gone,
But the way was bright to our soldiers' feet
Where the star of Lee led on.
But sudden there came a cloud,
Out rung a nation's knell;
Our cause was wrapped in its winding shroud,
All fell when the great Lee fell.
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