Chapter 5
As the bright column wound along its course, The smiling leader turned upon his horse To gaze with pride on that superb command. Twelve hundred men, the picked of all the land, Innured to hardship and made strong by strife Their lithe limbed bodies breathed of out-door life; While on their faces, resolute and brave, Hope stamped its shining seal, although their thoughts were grave.
XXV.
The sad eyed women halted in the dawn, And waved farewell to dear ones riding on. The modest mist picked up her robes and ran Before the Sun god's swift pursuing van. And suddenly there burst on startled eyes, The sight of soldiers, marching in the skies; That phantom host, a phantom Custer led; Mirage of dire portent, forecasting days ahead.
XXVI.
The soldier's children, flaunting mimic flags, Played by the roadside, striding sticks for nags. Their mothers wept, indifferent to the crowd Who saw their tears and heard them sob aloud. Old Indian men and squaws crooned forth a rhyme Sung by their tribes from immemorial time; And over all the drums' incessant beat Mixed with the scout's weird rune, and tramp of myriad feet.
XXVII.
So flawless was the union of each part The mighty column (moved as by one heart) Pulsed through the air, like some sad song well sung, Which gives delight, although the soul is wrung. Farther and fainter to the sight and sound The beautiful embodied poem wound; Till like a ribbon, stretched across the land Seemed the long narrow line of that receding band.
XXVIII.
The lot of those who in the silence wait Is harder than the fighting soldiers' fate. Back to the lonely post two women passed, With unaccustomed sorrow overcast. Two sad for sighs, too desolate for tears, The dark forebodings of long widowed years In preparation for the awful blow Hung on the door of hope the sable badge of woe.
XXIX.
Unhappy Muse! for thee no song remains, Save the sad miséréré of the plains. Yet though defeat, not triumph, ends the tale, Great victors sometimes are the souls that fail. All glory lies not in the goals we reach, But in the lessons which our actions teach. And he who, conquered, to the end believes In God and in himself, though vanquished, still achieves.
XXX.
Ah, grand as rash was that last fatal raid The little group of daring heroes made. Two hundred and two score intrepid men Rode out to war; not one came back again. Like fiends incarnate from the depths of hell Five thousand foemen rose with deafening yell, And swept that vale as with a simoon's breath, But like the gods of old, each martyr met his death.
XXXI.
Like gods they battled and like gods they died. Hour following hour that little band defied The hordes of red men swarming o'er the plain, Till scarce a score stood upright 'mid the slain. Then in the lull of battle, creeping near, A scout breathed low in Custer's listening ear: "_Death lies before, dear life remains behind Mount thy sure-footed steed, and hasten with the wind_."
XXXII.
A second's silence. Custer dropped his head, His lips slow moving as when prayers are said-- Two words he breathed--"God and Elizabeth," Then shook his long locks in the face of death, And with a final gesture turned away To join that fated few who stood at bay. Ah! deeds like that the Christ in man reveal Let Fame descend her throne at Custer's shrine to kneel.
XXXIII.
Too late to rescue, but in time to weep, His tardy comrades came. As if asleep He lay, so fair, that even hellish hate Withheld its hand and dared not mutilate. By fiends who knew not honor, honored still, He smiled and slept on that far western hill. Cast down thy lyre, oh Muse! thy song is done! Let tears complete the tale of him who failed, yet won.
End of Project Gutenberg's Custer, and Other Poems., by Ella Wheeler Wilcox