My heart shall discern him, and cry, 'This is he!'"
"I saw a man scaling a tower of despair,
And he went up alone, and the hosts shouted loud."
"That was my son! Had he streams of fair hair?"
"Nay; it was black as the blackest night-cloud."
"Did he live?" "No; he died: but the fortress was won,
And they said it was grand for a man to die so."
"Alas for his mother! He was not my son.
Was there no fair-hair'd soldier who humbled the foe?"
"I saw a man charging in front of his rank,
Thirty yards on, in a hurry to die:
Straight as an arrow hurled into the flank
Of a huge desert-beast, ere the hunter draws nigh."
"Did he live?" "No; he died: but the battle was won,
And the conquest-cry carried his name through the air.
Be comforted, mother; he was not thy son;
Worn was his forehead, and gray was his hair."
"Oh! the brow of my son is as smooth as a rose;
I kissed it last night in my dream. I have heard
Two legends of fame from the land of our foes;
But you said there were three; you must tell me the third."
"I saw a man flash from the trenches and fly
In a battery's face; but it was not to slay:
A poor little drummer had dropp'd down to die,
With his ankle shot through, in the place where he lay.
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