Ashby

By John Randolph Thompson

To the brave all home render;
Weep, ye skies of June!
With a radiance pure and tender,
Shine, O saddened moon;
"Dead upon the field of glory,"

"Dead upon the field of glory,"
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.
Then, 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.