Wrapped in his cloak, they bore him forth at dawn,
The soldier dead, dead in his gallant strength,
Young manhood’s prime. The heavy fold withdrawn
Showed his calm face; while all his rigid length
Lay stiff beneath the covering, the feet
Turned up to heaven like marble. Breezes played
Soft in his curling hair, the fragrance sweet
Of the wild-brier roses incense made,
And one bird sang a chant.
Yet recks it not,
This quiet body going to its grave,
Feet foremost, folded hands, if the storm rave
Or the sun shine. Henceforth nor part nor lot
Hath it with men—the tale is told, all’s o’er;
Its place shall know its step, its voice, no more;
Its memory shall pass away; its name,
For all its evil or for all its worth,
Whether bedecked with reverence or blame,
Shall soon be clean forgotten.—
Earth to earth!

The lady walked alone. Her glorious hair
Still held its roses crushed; the chill despair
That numbed her being could not dim the light
Of all her flashing jewels, nor the bright
Sheen of her draperies.
The summer sun
Rose in the east and showed the open grave
Close at her feet; but, ere the work begun—
Lowering the clay (O proud humanity!
Is this thy end?)—she gentle signal gave
To lay the body down, and, by its side
Kneeling, kissed brow and lips, fondly as bride
Might kiss; and, as she clung there, secretly
A shining ring left on the cold dead hand,
And covered it from view; then slowly rose
And gave them place.
But ere the tightening rope
Had done its duty, o’er the eastern slope
Rode horsemen, and the little group of those
Who gazed, drew back, and eyed askance the band.
They turned, they drew their reins—a sight to see
Indeed, this lady clad so royally,
Alone, beside a grave.
She raised her eyes,
And the bold leader bared his lofty head
Before her to his saddle-bow; the guise
Of bold, rough-riding trooper could not hide
The gallant grace that thus its homage paid
To so much beauty. At his signal mute,
The little band, Kentucky’s secret pride,
His daring followers in many a raid
And many a hair-breadth ’scape, made swift salute,
And, all dismounting, honor to the dead
Paid silently, not knowing ’twas their own
Bullet by night that laid him there:—so strange
The riddle of men’s life, its little range
Thick with crossed fates, though each one stands alone
To mortal eyes.
The rope slackened, the clay
Had reached its final resting-place. Then she
Who loved him best, in all her rich array
Stepped forth, and, kneeling, with her own hands cast
The first clod on his heart. “I yield to thee,
Nature, my only love. Oh, hold him fast
As sacred trust!
‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust!’”
Then, rising, with her lovely face upturned
To the clear sky, where the first sunbeams burned,
“I know that my Redeemer lives,” she said;
“He that believes on him, though he were dead,
Yet shall he live!”
And so passed from their sight.

The troopers ride away,
On to the south; the men who fill the grave
With hurried shovelfuls in whispers say,
“That’s part of Morgan’s band.” And one, a slave,
Looks down the road, and mutters: “That was him—
Young Cap’en Morgan’s self! These eyes is dim,
But they knows Morgan! Morgan!—what! why, bless
Your hearts, I know him, and I know Black Bess—
’Twas Bess he rode.”

And now the work is done;
On from their northern raid the troopers pass
Fleet to the south; the grave is filled, and gone
Even the slave.
Forever still, alone,
Her letters and bright picture on his breast,
Her sparkling spousal-ring on his dead hand,
The golden-haired young soldier lies at rest
Where o’er his head the steely shadows pass,
Far in the fair Kentucky border-land,
The lovely, rolling land of the Blue Grass.