Джон Рубен Томпсон (John Reuben Thompson)

Turner Ashby

To the brave all homage render!
  Weep, ye skies of June!
With a radiance pure and tender,
  Shine, O saddened moon;
"Dead upon the field of glory!"—
Hero fit for song and story—
  Lies our bold dragoon.

Well they learned, whose hands have slain him,
  Braver, knightlier foe
Never fought 'gainst Moor or Paynim—
  Rode at Templestowe:
With a mien how high and joyous,
'Gainst the hordes that would destroy us,
  Went he forth, we know.

Nevermore, alas! shall sabre
  Gleam around his crest—
Fought his fight, fulfilled his labor,
  Stilled his manly breast—
All unheard sweet Nature's cadence,
  Trump of fame and voice of maidens,
  Now he takes his rest.

Earth, that all too soon hath bound him,
  Gently wrap his clay!
Linger lovingly around him,
  Light of dying day!
Softly fall, ye summer showers;
Birds and bees among the flowers
  Make the gloom seem gay!

There, throughout the coming ages—
  When his sword is rust,
And his deeds in classic pages—
  Mindful of her trust
Shall Virginia, bending lowly,
Still a ceaseless vigil holy
  Keep above his dust.

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