The Hospital Steward—even he—
⁠Who on the sleeper kept his glance,
Was changed; late bright-black beard and eye
Looked now hearse-black; his heavy heart,
⁠Like his fagged mare, no more could dance;
⁠His grape was now a raisin dry:
⁠'Tis Mosby's homily—Man must die.

The amber sunset flushed the camp
⁠As on the hill their eyes they fed;
The pickets dumb looks at the wagon dart;
A handkerchief waves from the bannered tent—
⁠As white, alas! the face of the dead:
⁠Who shall the withering news impart?
⁠The bullet of Mosby goes through heart to heart!

They buried him where the lone ones lie
⁠(Lone sentries shot on midnight post)—
A green-wood grave-yard hid from ken,
Where sweet-fern flings an odor nigh—
⁠Yet held in fear for the gleaming ghost!
⁠Though the bride should see threescore and ten,
⁠She will dream of Mosby and his men.