- A PRINCE hath fallen! "With writing of his sword,"
- On Buena Vista's bloody battle-field,
- His name is writ, whose lion heart could yield
- Not unto five-fold might. What can afford
- Fit amulet from Death's dread shaft to save,
- Who levels princes with the low-born slave?
- Like brilliant day star in proud glory's wave,
- Sinks gallant Taylor to his home, the grave;
- Slumbers he now, triumphantly in war,
- Who ever onward soared in Victory's ear.
- Then let the noble conqueror sweetly rest,
- "With all his country's heartfelt wishes blest"-
- Yea, rest thee, soldier, calmly in the clay,
- Till the last trumpet sounds the judgment day.
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