III — Section 17

Not for him were these days

Of clerkly and sluggish calm—

To the petrel the swooping gale!

Austere he seemed, but the hearts

Of all men beat in his breast;

No fetter but galled his wrist,

No wrong that was not his own.

What if those eloquent lips

Curled with the old-time scorn?

What if in needless hours

His quick hand closed on the hilt?

'Twas the smoke from the well-won fields

That clouded the veteran's eyes.

A fighter this to the end!

Ah, if in coming times

Some giant evil arise,

And Honor falter and pale,

His were a name to conjure with!

God send his like again!