Contending armies bring, in turn,
      Their meed of praise or honor,
    And Pallas here has paused to bind
      The cypress wreath upon her: 
    It seems a holy sepulchre,
      Whose sanctities can waken
    Alike the love of friend or foe,—­
      Of Christian or of pagan.

    THEY come to own his high emprise,
      Who fled in frantic masses,
    Before the glittering bayonet
      That triumphed at Manassas: 
    Who witnessed Kernstown’s fearful odds,
      As on their ranks he thundered,
    Defiant as the storied Greek,
      Amid his brave three hundred!

    They well recall the tiger spring,
      The wise retreat, the rally,
    The tireless march, the fierce pursuit,
      Through many a mountain valley: 
    Cross Keys unlock new paths to fame,
      And Port Republic’s story
    Wrests from his ever-vanquish’d foes,
      Strange tributes to his glory.

    Cold Harbor rises to their view,—­
      The Cedars’ gloom is o’er them;
    Antietam’s rough and rugged heights,
      Stretch mockingly before them: 
    The lurid flames of Fredericksburg
      Right grimly they remember,
    That lit the frozen night’s retreat,
      That wintry-wild December!

    The largess of their praise is flung
      With bounty, rare and regal;
    —­Is it because the vulture fears
      No longer the dead eagle? 
    Nay, rather far accept it thus,—­
      An homage true and tender,
    As soldier unto soldier’s worth,—­
      As brave to brave will render,

    But who shall weigh the wordless grief
      That leaves in tears its traces,
    As round their leader crowd again,
      The bronzed and veteran faces! 
    The “Old Brigade” he loved so well—­
      The mountain men, who bound him
    With bays of their own winning, ere
      A tardier fame had crowned him;

    The legions who had seen his glance
      Across the carnage flashing,
    And thrilled to catch his ringing “charge”
      Above the volley crashing;—­
    Who oft had watched the lifted hand,
      The inward trust betraying,
    And felt their courage grow sublime,
      While they beheld him praying!

    Good knights and true as ever drew
      Their swords with knightly Roland;
    Or died at Sobieski’s side,
      For love of martyr’d Poland;
    Or knelt with Cromwell’s Ironsides;
      Or sang with brave Gustavus;
    Or on the plain of Austerlitz,
      Breathed out their dying AVES!

    Rare fame! rare name!—­If chanted praise,
      With all the world to listen,—­
    If pride that swells a nation’s soul,—­
      If foemen’s tears that glisten,—­
    If pilgrims’ shrining love,—­if grief
      Which nought may soothe or sever,—­
    If THESE can consecrate,—­this spot
      Is sacred ground forever!