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.