Pinched our grimed faces to ghastly plight—
⁠Does the elm wood
Recall the haggard beards of blood?

The battle-smoked flag, with stars eclipsed,
⁠We followed (it never fell!)—
In silence husbanded our strength—
⁠Received their yell;
Till on this slope we patient turned
⁠With cannon ordered well;
Reverse we proved was not defeat;
But ah, the sod what thousands meet!—
⁠Does Malvern Wood
Bethink itself, and muse and brood?

⁠We elms of Malvern Hill
⁠Remember every thing;
⁠But sap the twig will fill:
⁠Wag the world how it will,
⁠Leaves must be green in Spring.