Henry Timrod

Ripley

Rich in red honors, that upon him lie
 As lightly as the Summer dews
Fall where he won his fame beneath the sky
 Of tropic Vera Cruz;

Bold scorner of the cant that has its birth
 In feeble or in failing powers;
A lover of all frank and genial mirth
 That wreathes the sword with flowers;

He moves amid the warriors of the day,
 Just such a soldier as the art
That builds its trophies upon human clay
 Moulds of a cheerful heart.

I see him in the battle that shall shake,
 Ere long, old Sumter's haughty crown,
And from their dreams of peaceful traffic wake
 The wharves of yonder town;

As calm as one would greet a pleasant guest,
 And quaff a cup to love and life,
He hurls his deadliest thunders with a jest,
 And laughs amid the strife.

Yet not the gravest soldier of them all
 Surveys a field with broader scope;
And who behind that sea-encircled wall
 Fights with a loftier hope?

Gay Chieftain! on the crimson rolls of Fame
 Thy deeds are written with the sword;
But there are gentler thoughts which, with thy name,
 Thy country's page shall hoard.

A nature of that rare and happy cast
 Which looks, unsteeled, on murder's face;
Through what dark scenes of bloodshed hast thou passed,
 Yet lost no social grace?

So, when the bard depicts thee, thou shalt wield
 The weapon of a tyrant's doom,
Round which, inscribed with many a well-fought field,
 The rose of joy shall bloom.