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Ensign Epps, at the battle of Flanders, Sowed a seed of glory and duty, That flowers and flames in height and beauty Like a crimson lily with heart of gold, To-day, when the wars of Ghent are old, And buried as deep as their dead commanders. Ensign Epps was the color bearer— No matter on which side, Philip or Earl; Their cause was the shell—his deed was the pearl, Scarce more than a lad, he had been a sharer That day in the wildest work of the field. He was wounded and spent, and the fight was lost; His comrades were slain, or a scattered host. But stainless and scathless out of the strife He had carried his colors, safer than life. By the river's brink, without weapon or shield, He faced the victors. The thick heart-mist He dashed from his eyes, and the silk he kissed Ere he held it aloft in the setting sun, As proudly as if the fight had been won, And he smiled when they ordered him to yield. Ensign Epps, with his broken blade, Cut the silk from the gilded staff, Which he poised like a spear till the charge was made, And hurled at the leader with a laugh. Then round his breast, like the scarf of his love, He tied the colors his heart above, And plunged in his armor into the tide, And there, in his dress of honor, died. Where are the lessons ye kinglings teach? And what is the text of your proud commanders? Out of the centuries, heroes reach With the scroll of a deed, with the word of a story, Of one man's truth and of all men's glory, Like Ensign Epps at the battle of Flanders. |