Custer's Last Charge

On through the mist of the morning,
On through the midday glare;
A hard, rough ride by the Rosebud's side,
Cutting swaths through the sultry air.
With tightened girths and with bridles free,
Their sabres clattering beside the knee;
Pistol and carbine ready at hand,
And one brave heart through the wide command,
Rode the sun-browned troopers till eve grew red
Rode Custer right at the column's head.
"Small rest to-night; by to-morrow's sun
We'll strike the red man's trail,
But an hour to breathe till the fight is won,
Till the climax caps the tale."
And the troopers spring to the saddle once more,
For Custer has heard that the Sioux are near,
And he longs for Glory as never before,
And he knows not the name of doubt or fear.
"On by the stars, scan well the trail,
And miss not an Indian sign."
Now the dawn is gray and the stars are pale,
And hope is high on the lengthened line
The hope, half joy, of the soldier's trust,
That waits not trump or drum.
"Scatter out, my lads, so the heavy dust
Shall not tell the Sioux we come."
But up on the hills, a moveless shape
An Indian plumed for war
Sees the mad advance, sees the carbines glance
Mid the galloping lines afar.
"Custer, the Chief of the Yellow Hair,"
He mutters with bated breath,
"Boldly you ride to the red man's lair:
Welcome, white chief, to Death."
And Custer, still at the column's head,
Spurs on that none may share
The first glance down the river's bed
The game he's hunted, there.
Brave child of the battle, with hope elate,
See you not with your frank blue eyes
They are five to one and they lurk and wait,
On every brow the stamp of Hate
That never wears out or dies.
But the soldier turns in his saddle and cries:
"Hurrah for Custer's luck, the Sioux
Have met me face to face;
The game, lads, is for me, for you,
Who would a step retrace?
Not one, for never twice to man
Such battle-chance was given,
To snatch red honor in the van,
Since yon steep crags were earthquake riven.
Reno, dash over the river there.
God, how the prancing devils swarm!
The squaws shall wail
Thro the mile-wide vale
When sweep we down it like a storm.
Mine be the charge on their midmost band,"
And his broad-brimmed hat in the air he tossed.
"Now, lads, ride on like a prairie flame,
You follow a man who has never lost."
Three hundred horsemen spring at his heels,
And every trooper his ardor feels,
And the clatter and rush of their horses feet
The terrible rhythm of War repeat,
As they sweep by the bluffs while, cocked at hand,
Their carbines glint long the brave command,
Custer in front, down the steep incline,
Into the Indians ambushed line.
On through the smoke of the battle,
Dimming the blinding glare,
A headlong ride to the riverside,
Cutting swaths through the redmen there.
Cutting swaths, but the troopers are falling;
Falling fast, while the swarming foe
From the earth and the hills seem to grow,
And the roar of their rifles, appalling,
Rolls out in a long thunder rattle.
See! Custer has swerved from the river,
"Fire! fight to the hill! We'll have Reno soon here!"
His voice like a clear trumpet sound, without quiver,
Is heard by the remnant unfallen. A cheer
Is their answer: but leaving their cover
Fresh swarms of the Sioux ride down on the band.
In the grim wild fight from the river
Three hundred had shrunk to a score,
Their track was of heroes gore
And corses of heroes who went to rest
Fighting one against ten, but breast to breast,
With savage foes in their death-embrace,
The brave and the braves dying face to face,
Unhorsed, in a narrow circle
That blazed at its outer rim,
Whence their fast-fired bullets hurtle,
Stood Custer and ten with him.
"If Reno comes he will find us here,
If he comes not we'll meet him there."
And he looked up to Heaven unblanched by fear,
With the sun on his yellow hair.
"Here, while a man is left," he cried,
"Let a gun be heard till dust is dust.
Death is in front, but the end of Fame
Comes not to the brave who keep their trust."
A rampart of dead men around him.
Doomed Custer stands all but alone,
He but speaks through the mouth of his rifle,
And there's death in its every tone.
On through the smoke of the battle,
With maddening cries on the air,
The wild Sioux rush from the riverside
Like wolves on a man in their lair,
Like wolves, and trusting to numbers
They sweep on the desperate few,
Who each bid a stern adieu
To the tried, to the trusted and true.
Then die where they stand, as the oncoming yell
Of the savages lifts up its chorus from hell.
Ere the horse hoofs trampled the ramparts dread
The last of the whole command lay dead
A sight for the world, in pride, to scan,
While Valor and Duty lead the van.
They charged, they struggled, THEY DIED TO A MAN.
And fame will never forget that ride,
That wild, mad dash to the riverside,
Where Custer died.