The dying sunset’s slanting rays
    Incarnadine the soldier’s deed,
His sturdy countenance betrays
               The bull-dog breed.

Not his to shun the stubborn fight,
    The struggle against cruel odds.
Alone, unaided—'tis a sight
                For men and gods.

And now his back is bowed and bent,
    Now stooping, now erect he stands,
And now the red life blood is sprent
                From both his hands.

He takes his enemies on trust
    As one who sees and yet is blind,
For every mutilating thrust
                Comes from behind.

’Tis done! The dying sun has gone,
    But triumph fills the soldier’s breast.
He’s sewn his back brace button on
                While fully dressed.