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The forest-leaves lay scattered cold and dead,
Upon the withered grass that autumn morn,
When, with as widowed hearts
And hopes as dead and cold,

A gallant army formed their last array
Upon that field, in silence and deep gloom,
And at their conqueror’s feet
Laid their war-weapons down.

Sullen and stern, disarmed but not dishonored;
Brave men, but brave in vain, they yielded there:
The soldier’s trial-task
Is not alone “to die.”

Honor to chivalry! the conqueror’s breath
Stains not the ermine of his foeman’s fame,
Nor mocks his captive’s doom—
The bitterest cup of war.

But be that bitterest cup the doom of all
Whose swords are lightning-flashes in the cloud
Of the Invader’s wrath,
Threatening a gallant land!

His armies’ trumpet-tones wake not alone
Her slumbering echoes; from a thousand hills
Her answering voices shout,
And her bells ring to arms!