}
};
126
To fight aloud, is very brave—
But gallanter, I know
Who charge within the bosom
The Cavalry of Woe—
Who win, and nations do not see—
Who fall—and none observe—
Whose dying eyes, no Country
Regards with patriot love—
We trust, in plumed procession
For such, the Angels go—
Rank after Rank, with even feet—
And Uniforms of Snow.