  Dedicated to Col. R. M. Kelly, Superintendent of the National Cemetery, Louisville. [The loss of a shield was regarded as peculiarly disgraceful by the Greek soldiers. The dead were borne home upon their shields. “Return with thy shield, my son, or upon it,” was the heroic injunction of a Spartan mother.] Sound, trumpet sound! The die is cast! The Rubicon of fate is passed! The loyal and the rebel hosts, Kentucky, throng thy leaguered coasts, And on the issue of the strife Hang peace and liberty and life; All that the storied past endears, And all the hopes of coming years; The startled world looks on the field. Thou canst not fly—thou dar’st not yield— Then strike! and make thy foeman feel Thy triply consecrated steel, And with or on thy shining shield Return, Kentucky, from the field. Strike! though the battle’s dead be strown O’er land and wave from zone to zone; Strike! though the gulf of human blood Roll o’er thee like the primal flood. Treason at home—beyond the sea— Its ally, ancient tyranny, Democracy’s relentless foe, Aim at thy heart their deadliest blow; Freedom’s last hope remains with thee, Oh, army of democracy; Then lead thy martial hosts abroad In the grand panoply of God, And with or on thy shining shield, Return, Kentucky, from the field. Wave, banners, wave, and let the sky Glow with your flashing wings on high; Sweeter than minstrel ever told; Oh, who that ever heard the story Of all our dead who fell in glory, Still pressing where the starry light Streamed like a meteor o’er the fight, Till their expiring bosoms poured The red libation of the sword, Would leave Kentucky now, or thrust Her beaming forehead in the dust, Where treason’s reptiles writhe and hiss Like fiends shut out from Eden’s bliss? Better the freeman’s lowliest grave Than golden fetters of a slave; Then with or on thy shining shield, Return, Kentucky, from the field. If bribed by lust of power or gold Thy country’s welfare thou hast sold, Iscariot-like thy name shall be In Freedom’s dark Gethsemane; Disgrace and fell remorse shall plow Eternal furrows o’er thy brow; By angels, men, and fiends abhorred, Like Judas who betrayed his Lord. Outcast at home—across the sea Shunned like a leper thou shalt be, No spring shall slake thy burning thirst, The fire shall shun thee as accursed Day shall be cheerless—no repose At night thy swollen eye shall close— Lift to indignant Heaven thine eye, Curse God in black despair, and die! Kentucky, hast thou son so base, Thy fame unsullied would disgrace? Attaint his blood, disown his race, His line, his very name efface. Then charge! thy grand battalions free From all attaint of treachery— Charge on thy foes! make all the air Vocal with freedom’s holiest prayer, And with or on thy shining shield, Return, Kentucky, from the field! State of the “Dark and Bloody Ground,” The trumpet peals its final sound Down every mountain height arrayed Comes thundering on the long brigade; By every valley, pass, and river, Sabres and bayonets flash and quiver; Shame to the faithless son who falters When impious hands assail their altars, And fill each fount of happiness With waves of woe and bitterness; The dead their august shades present By Frankfort’s Battle Monument; Not now their souls can be at rest, Though in the Islands of the Blest— “Remember us,” their voices cry, “When comes the hour of conflict nigh,” And with or on thy shining shield, Return, Kentucky, from the field. |
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