Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet
beautiful & bright he stood
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heoric blood,
A proud, though childlike form.
The flames roll'd on...he would not go
Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He call'd aloud "say, father, say
If yet my task is done!"
He knew not the chieftain lay
Unconscious to his son.
"Speak, father!" once again
he cried
"If I may yet be gone!"
And but the booming shots replied
And the flames roll'd on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death,
In still yet brave despair;
And shouted but one more aloud,
"Father must I stay?"
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud
The wreathing fires made way
They wrapt the ship in splendor wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And stream'd above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound...
The boy-oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea.
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part;
But the noblest thing that perished there
Was that young faithful heart.
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